The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 2

 

Chapter 2

"Childhood is the most beautiful of all life's seasons, full of wonder, discovery, and the magic of growing up." — Unknown.

Childhood 

It was August 18, 1989. I was only six years old, but the image remains ingrained. The assassination of Luis Carlos Galán Sarmiento, a presidential candidate in Colombia, marked the beginning of the horrors my young mind would witness. Could it have been any different? Living in Colombia, South America, during the Pablo Escobar era was synonymous with constant danger. To me, it was the bombing era. We didn't need a TV to witness the horrors; they were in the streets. Walking with my mother through the central plaza, I couldn't avoid the graphic, uncensored headlines of violent crimes on the front pages of newspapers. As a child, I learned more about dead bodies just by walking on the street than a first-year medical student at a morgue.

Early one morning that same year, probably January—as I excitedly prepared for my first day of elementary school, I vividly remember my bunny-like backpack, half electric blue and half white, with bunny ears and moving eyes. While waiting quietly for the private transport to take me to school, I watched a beautiful Dalmatian sniffing a palm leaf in the middle of the road. As I focused on the curious dog, I saw a blue Jeep drive by and instantly kill the dog right before my eyes. What followed was pure horror: the owner, a woman, screamed at the top of her lungs, and then my memory went blank.

I have always felt that my childhood was stolen from me because of these exposures. My mother did what she could to protect me, but there wasn't much she could do about the pervasive environment we lived in. The previous year, our house had been robbed. My parents had hired a housekeeper that morning before they went to work, and I was barely four years old. I used to joke, even today, that the woman emptied our entire home but left me sitting alone on the front porch. The joke goes: was I so bad that not even the thieves wanted to take me?

I saw her ironing clothes, emptying my mom's closet, and putting things in boxes. When I asked her what she was doing, she grabbed my hand and put me outside the front door. I remember being found by my mom outside, wearing only my underwear. How dare she leave me there? Later, when the police caught her, I was brought to the station as a witness. It wasn't enough that I had seen her take everything; as a four-year-old, I had to identify the criminal who could have taken me from my parents. That experience still hurts to this day. Where were the adults supposed to protect me, a young child?

Around the same time, my parents were having a heated argument—voices raised, tension thick in the air. In a moment of rage, my father grabbed what I believed was a shoe and hurled it, aiming it at my mother. I don't know what compelled me, but I instinctively jumped into the middle.

I can't recall if the shoe struck me near my eye or caused me to stumble and hit the corner of the bed frame. Either way, the result was immediate blood pouring from a gash near my eye. I remember the chaos that erupted. My mother screamed in panic as I cried in pain. My father stood frozen, and my mother, unsure of what to do, grabbed me and ran to our neighbors for help.

The neighbor tried to stop the bleeding with cotton balls, pressing gently but firmly, but it was useless. The blood wouldn't stop. Amid this desperate scene, for reasons I'll never fully understand, someone thought submerging me in a tank of water and lifting me up and down would help. I remember the sensation of being dunked—wet, confused, and terrified. But nothing worked; the bleeding was relentless.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, my mom made the decision to take me to the hospital. But we had no car, so she cradled me and boarded a public bus. Imagine it: a mother holding her bleeding child, blood dripping, staining her clothes, as the passengers on the bus stared in shock. I can still see their horrified faces—wide-eyed, mouths agape, murmuring. The ride felt like an eternity, every second marked by the dull, pounding pain near my eye and the overwhelming confusion of a little girl in crisis.

When we finally arrived at the hospital, everything was a blur of bright lights and hurried voices. I remember being laid down, a doctor looming over me, placing drops in my eye that made my vision blur and fade. The next thing I knew, I was waking up. I stood before a mirror, my left eye covered with a bandage.

I was lucky. The doctor told my mom that I had come perilously close to losing my eye. To this day, I bear both the physical and emotional scars from that day, a faint but permanent mark near my eye and the haunting memory of chaos, pain, and a child's instinct to protect her mother at any cost.

My parents divorced/separated in 1986. I vividly remember the meeting and the signing of the papers in the living room, and I even recall the dress of the notary who came to our house. I refuse to believe that I am the product of a dysfunctional family and environment. By age five, I understood deep within myself that while the chaos around me was seen as usual, it was far from it. I refused to accept that it was okay. I resolved never to become a drunkard after witnessing the spectacles my father would create while intoxicated. I grew to dislike many aspects of the northern Colombian culture—the heavy drinking, the reckless lifestyle, and the chauvinistic men who would hit their wives or anyone they pleased, usually targeting the vulnerable.

My father was known to have a bad temper, often excused by the fact that his father was the same. Furniture would fly across the room; knives would be thrown between siblings—it was pure drama. I'm alive by the grace of God. At one point, I almost lost my left eye when my father, in a fit of rage, tried to hit my mother. I was only four years old. It seems that most of my horrible childhood memories happened when I was four, but the worst was yet to come.

Of course, my father is no longer an alcoholic—he hasn't touched alcohol since my high school graduation in 1999. He is also no longer a violent man, perhaps due to the loss of strength that comes with age and the impact of a stroke. The last time he raised his hand to me, I was twelve. I stood up to his physical abuse because I was simply tired of it. He realized I was no longer the little girl who would take the abuse for no reason.

Around that time, my mother was also being physically and emotionally abused by my father. I gave her an ultimatum: either he leaves us alone, or I am out of there. I was dead, seriously. That was the last night my father ever spent under our roof, the roof my mother paid for since we didn't own a home. We lost everything when that woman stole our belongings, including all my mother's life savings, forcing her to sell the house. She bought a small lot where she dreamed of building a new home. If I had known that lot would contribute to my mother's demise, I would have never allowed her to buy it. But that's, of course, another story for a later chapter.

When they married, my dad was barely 28 years old, ten years younger than my mother. They had only one child: me. He was also a teacher, working in a rural area, and would come home on the weekends. Unfortunately, he was working in a town located in Los Montes de María, a known red zone at the time due to the presence of guerrilla and paramilitary groups.

The first "burro Bomba," or donkey bomb in the country, went off in that little town. It was a weekend, and my dad was home. The explosive device was placed in a donkey, detonating in front of the police headquarters, right next to where he rented a room. I saw the news showing the destroyed little room and the hammock where my dad would sleep. Although I don't know all the details, I believe this event and other related issues made my father decide not to return to his teaching job in that area. His refusal was considered abandonment of employment.

I was about nine to ten years old when this happened. My dad decided to pursue photography instead. One of the things that deeply impacted him was meeting a good church family in that area. The daughter of the pastor and her husband, who were good friends of my dad, was brutally assassinated by the guerrilla, possibly as a message. This event, among others, led my dad to refuse to return to his teaching job. My mom urged him to at least report for duty so she could help him find a different job, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He moved in with my grandmother and seemed to go through a period of deep depression. Eventually, he moved to Bogotá, the capital, to find work. He had a family member there and soon thought of becoming a photographer.

This was around 1992, during Ernesto Samper Pizano's presidency, amid the El Proceso 8000 scandal. My dad started taking pictures with his little Kodak camera and was happy-go-lucky in the capital. One day, while taking photos of a beautiful building, he later found out it was the National Bank, located next to a police station. He was apprehended. The authorities suspected him of being a spy or planning to plant a bomb.

An officer on a motorcycle arrived at our home to inform us that my dad had been detained. An investigator questioned my mom about his identity and intentions. Thankfully, my dad was released when they realized he was himself, innocently taking pictures.

Throughout my childhood, I moved frequently, averaging about two relocations per year. The only exception was when I turned thirteen, when we had to stay in the same apartment for two years. Our living conditions were often far from ideal; at one point, we found ourselves in a dark garage and a house where foxes lived and roamed, which made us fear being attacked.

At eight or nine, it felt like I was raising my mother. I often had to pick up her paycheck and help her manage the money; otherwise, it would be spent on unnecessary things, like gifts, or taken by mooching family members who were always like vultures. With all this, I realized there was a lot of resentment from my childhood years. I always knew I came from a dysfunctional family.

One of the most unsettling experiences was when we lived in a makeshift shack built under the curb of a small bridge. Whenever a car passed overhead, I feared it might be my last day. I was just eleven years old then.

Among these challenging living situations, one of the most memorable was a house in Colombia built from palm and bahareque (a mixture of mud and sticks); this type of dwelling was emblematic of traditional rural architecture, deeply rooted in the region's natural resources and cultural practices. These homes, typically found in the countryside and villages, were constructed from locally sourced materials that were well-suited to the tropical climate and the lifestyle of their inhabitants. The house we rented had a floor of packed earth and was painted a striking, extravagant orange color, making it impossible to miss. Everyone in the area knew where I lived! I often wished smartphones existed back then so I could have shared accurate pictures of this unique home.

My maternal grandmother lived in a house like the one in the picture; visiting there so often was an experience that profoundly connected me to my roots and the traditional architecture of my region.  I still yearn for the simple joys I experienced at my grandma's house. The backyard was enchanting, a lush haven filled with various fruit trees, making it feel like paradise. There were four towering orange trees, their branches heavy with bright, juicy fruit, and another four majestic mango trees that would shower the ground with ripe, fragrant mangoes every May, creating a carpet of sweetness. The níspero trees added a unique flavor to the mix, while the guanabana trees stood tall and proud. Lemons, anon, and even banana trees rounded out this vibrant orchard, each contributing to that yard's rich tapestry of life.

But it wasn’t just the abundance of fruit that made the place unique. The atmosphere was infused and saturated with a profound peace and tranquility. The hammock, gently swaying in the breeze, became a sanctuary where time seemed to slow down, wrapping me in its comforting embrace. The soothing sound of water added to the serenity, creating a perfect symphony of nature that melted the world's worries. This idyllic scene is now a cherished memory, deeply in my mind. One day, I hope to bring that vision back to life, to recreate the magical essence of my grandma's backyard and hold onto the serenity it once brought me.

My grandmother’s home no longer exists. Theses are no longer typical of modern infrastructure, as contemporary construction methods have become more prevalent. However, these have been preserved as critical cultural landmarks instead of fading into obscurity.

One of the best examples of this preservation can be found in San Juan de Betulia, a neighboring within minutes of my grandma’s house. I had the opportunity to visit this town during the summer of 2023. The city has been transformed into an open-air art gallery, with its palm and bahareque houses beautifully painted with various designs along what is now known as the Route of Color.

These houses, rich in history and cultural significance, are not just relics of the past. They have been reborn in vibrant colors, standing proudly amidst the modern buildings that have sprung up in Betulia over the years. The stories of the generations of families who lived in these homes are intertwined with the town's fabric, adding depth and meaning to the colorful facades that now draw attention from all corners.

Having lived in one of these traditional homes, I can attest to their remarkable design. Despite the region's often harsh, hot temperatures, these houses were incredibly cool and fresh. The palm thatch and bahareque construction provided natural insulation, keeping the interior comfortable even during the hottest parts of the day. This natural cooling effect made these homes practical and a testament to the ingenuity of traditional building methods.

Not everything was a tragedy growing up, celebrating holidays, Christmas was the main holiday, a vibrant and deeply rooted celebration filled with religious traditions, family gatherings, music, and festive activities. The season, one of the most anticipated times of the year, reflected the warmth and cultural richness of the region.

Participating in the Novenas de Aguinaldo was not just a religious observance but a communal experience. Families and friends gathered to pray, sing carols, and reflect on nativity each evening. The tradition of hosting these gatherings in different homes each night fostered a sense of community, making everyone feel a part of the celebration. The novenas were accompanied by traditional Christmas carols (villancicos) and usually featured small nativity scenes (pesebres) set up in homes, further enhancing the feeling of togetherness.

Christmas Eve, known as Nochebuena, was the pinnacle of the holiday season, filled with joy and anticipation. Families came together for a special dinner that typically included a variety of traditional Colombian dishes such as lechona (stuffed roast pork), buñuelos (fried dough balls), natilla (a type of custard), and tamales. Many people attended the Misa de Gallo, or Midnight Mass, a profoundly significant religious ceremony marking the birth of Jesus. The churches in Sincelejo were beautifully decorated, and the atmosphere was exciting. After the mass, families returned home to exchange gifts, an eagerly awaited moment. In many households, it was believed that Baby Jesus (El Niño Dios) brought gifts for the children, adding to the thrill of the evening.

The presence, or nativity scene, was the central decorative element in many homes, churches, and public spaces during Christmas. This tradition dates back centuries and is a visual representation of the birth of Jesus and the Holy Family. These scenes can be elaborate, with figurines representing the Holy Family, shepherds, and animals, often set amidst landscapes depicting the rural countryside. While the presence is traditional, Christmas trees and lights have become popular in Sincelejo. Homes and streets were adorned with colorful lights, and the city often hosted public lighting displays that attracted visitors.

Christmas carols, known as villancicos, were essential to the holiday season. These songs were sung during the novenas and at gatherings. The music was lively and reflected the joyful spirit of the season. Parrandas were lively gatherings where people sang, danced, and celebrated with traditional music, including Vallenato and cumbia. These festive parties were familiar throughout the holiday season and often continued late into the night.

During the Christmas season, the streets of Sincelejo came alive with various public events. Parades, street markets, and public concerts added to the festive atmosphere. Fireworks were also a common sight. They often set off on Christmas and New Year’s Eve, lighting the sky with color and excitement.

The festive spirit of the Christmas season continued into New Year’s Eve when the city was alive with similar traditions. Family gatherings, meals, and music continued, and the city often had special events to welcome the new year. The night was filled with a sense of celebration, culminating in fireworks and the burning of año viejo effigies, symbolizing the farewell to the old year and the joyous welcome of the new.

The Christmas season was one of my favorites. It seems like in Colombia, there’s always something to celebrate. It often feels like every other Monday, if not every Monday, is marked as a holiday. I always joke that they even celebrate the Day of the Potato and other quirky occasions in Colombia. The country has numerous celebration days throughout the year, encompassing national holidays, cultural festivities, and local traditions. Colombians are always finding new reasons to celebrate.

 

The Courage to Succeed: A true American Dream; Book Series - Chapter 1

 

Chapter 1:

"The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, but understanding where we come from provides the map for the path we take." — Unknown

In the beginning

It was a Friday, November 5th, 1982, in Sincelejo-Sucre, Colombia, South America. According to my mother's account, she went for what she believed to be a routine prenatal appointment. She was about 34 weeks pregnant at the time. The OBGYN doctor, Dr. Blanco, examined her and delivered an urgent message: "Are you ready to have this baby? Let's do it; the baby needs to come out yesterday. Your blood pressure is extremely high." The news was sudden, like a bolt from the blue. That very evening, she underwent an emergency C-section. I was born around 5 PM.

Brimming with joy at my arrival, my father brought mariachis to the hospital and serenaded us with the song "Eres mi Niña Bonita"—"You are my beautiful girl." His happiness was palpable, a testament to the strength of our family's love. Meanwhile, I was placed in an incubator, having arrived a bit more prematurely than expected, barely 34 weeks into gestation. My mother was filled with fear as she looked at my tiny, fragile form. She cried, worried I might not make it. Even my three-year-old cousin Diana, who came to visit, remarked on my long, skinny legs.

My early years were filled with the vibrant colors and sounds of our small town, Sincelejo-Sucre. I grew up surrounded by the rich cultural heritage of Colombia, from the lively music in the streets to the delicious aromas of our traditional dishes. My parents, Rocio and Manuel, instilled in me a deep appreciation for our Spanish heritage and the importance of family. Later on in this book, you may sense an ironic tone. The story of my name is a tale of creativity and fate. My father found a book or pamphlet with the French name Rosabelle. Thinking he could give it a Spanish twist, he removed the "-le," creating Rosabel. Later, he discovered that Rosabel was an English name. To add more layers to my identity, my mother chose Virginia as my middle name, another English name. Thus, I became Rosabel Virginia Gonzalez Quinones—a mix of English and Spanish names, with Gonzalez and Quinones reflecting my Spanish heritage. Quinones was a rare last name in our small town that stood out even in the local phone book.

Allow me to tell you about the most wonderful woman I have ever met—my mother, Rocio, whose name means "morning dawn." Affectionately known as "la seño" or "the teacher," she began her career as an elementary school teacher, proudly serving the government for 34 years. But her talents extended beyond the classroom; she was also a well-known dress decorator in our small town. Towards the end of her life, she pursued a master's degree in arts, showcasing her dedication to lifelong learning and personal growth. Her commitment to education and self-improvement has always been a guiding light in my life. My mother was one of the founders of the elementary school where she served for many years, and her name remains etched in the school hymn and emblem—a testament to her lasting impact.

Rocio, my mother, was a woman whose heart was as vast as the sky, and her capacity for kindness seemed limitless. People often said, "She would take bread out of her mouth to give to others," perfectly capturing her selflessness and generosity. She was the kind of person who would give everything she had to help someone in need, even if it meant sacrificing her comfort or well-being. Her acts of kindness and generosity were not just gestures, they were a warm embrace that touched the lives of everyone she met.

I sincerely believe my mother was a beautiful soul, carrying within her a profound kindness and warmth that touched everyone around her. However, she was also shaped by her circumstances, and in many ways, she was misguided. Her life was heavily influenced by the dysfunction and instability of the family she grew up in—a family marked by conflict, broken relationships, and a lack of nurturing support.

Despite her intrinsic goodness, her chaotic upbringing left her without the guidance or resources to navigate life's challenges healthily. This dysfunction likely influenced her decisions, relationships, and perhaps even how she saw herself and the world around her.

Her journey was one of contrasts—on one hand, she was a source of love and light; on the other, she was burdened by the scars of her past. This duality shaped her life and had a significant impact on mine. I honor her for the beauty she brought into the world, even as I recognize the struggles that held her back. Understanding her story has helped me appreciate the complexity of her character and the remarkable resilience she showed in the face of adversity—a strength that continues to inspire me and will surely inspire you.

Her mother married at a very young age, between 12 and 14, to a man in his early 30s. She described her relationship with her husband as a transaction her father made; she was given in marriage to this man in exchange for animals and land. She had a total of 14 children, of which only 11 survived. My mother had ten siblings, though the youngest daughter committed suicide at a very young age. The stories of her family dynamics were nothing short of terrible, and I won't go into detail here.

I often witnessed my mother cry, her tears revealing a deep longing to be loved and cherished in a way she never fully received. She believed she needed to buy love and affection, often giving gifts to earn the love and respect she desperately sought. This belief, likely born out of her unmet emotional needs, led her to equate giving with being valued by others.

Sadly, some family members took advantage of her generosity, exploiting her kindness for their gain. I could see this happening, and it deeply troubled me. There were moments when I felt our roles were reversed—that I was raising my mother. I could see what was wrong, and I felt compelled to step in, to try to right the wrongs that others imposed on her.

In many ways, my mother was like a child—vulnerable and easily swayed—and I felt an overwhelming need to protect her. This responsibility forced me to be solid and grown-up in situations where she couldn't be. Even at a young age, I carried a strong sense of duty to shield her from the harm others might cause. The need to protect her often manifested as aggression, making me a very fierce little girl, ready to defend her at any cost.

My mother was a remarkable individual in appearance and talent. Her undeniable beauty went beyond the physical, and her artistry and creativity were exceptional. She had a unique gift for crafting exquisite items, turning ordinary materials into beautiful and intricate works of art. Her skill was so impressive that people often praised her for her "lovely hands," acknowledging her creations' delicate and refined nature. Her artistic talents were indeed something to be admired.

In addition to her artistic talents, my mother was also an exceptional teacher. She had a natural ability to connect with her students, earning them respect and admiration. Her dedication to teaching and her ability to inspire her students made her a beloved figure in the educational community. She was admired for her creative skills and commitment to nurturing and educating others, leaving a lasting impact on those fortunate enough to learn from her.

Her beauty wasn't just skin-deep; it radiated from within her soul. Rocio had a warmth and gentleness that drew people to her—a light that shone brightly despite the darkness that often surrounded her life. Sadly, her life was marked by suffering and hardship. She was a victim of the circumstances and the time she lived in, enduring unimaginable abuse at the hands of those who were supposed to protect and love her—first from her own family and later from her husband. Even the friends she trusted turned away from her, leaving her to face her struggles alone.

Despite the pain and betrayal she experienced, my mother never lost her faith in humanity. She never let bitterness take root in her heart or let anger define her. Instead, she continued to see the good in others, believing in their better nature even when life had given her every reason to doubt it. Her kindness and generosity were not just qualities she possessed; they were the essence of her identity. Rocio gave of herself freely and fully, often without expecting anything in return. She loved deeply and without reservation, touching the lives of those around her in profound and lasting ways.

Though my mother's life was tragically cut short, her legacy endures in the hearts of those who were fortunate enough to know her. She was a beacon of light in a world that can often be cruel, a reminder that even in the face of suffering, it is possible to hold on to kindness and live with a heart full of love. Her story is a testament to the strength of the human spirit, a powerful example of how one person's compassion can leave an indelible mark on the world. Rocio may be gone, but her impact on the lives she touched will never be forgotten.

 

 

 

The Courage to Succeed: A true American Dream; Book Series -Foreword

 

Foreword

I reflected deeply on the experiences and influences shaping my life and career when I began writing this book. This book is not just a collection of thoughts and stories; it is a tapestry woven from the threads of my personal and professional life. The inspiration for this book comes from a lifetime of learning and growth punctuated by moments of joy, challenge, and profound realization.

In writing this book, I aim to share the knowledge and insights I have gained over the years. I hope to offer a perspective that resonates with readers, providing them with tools and reflections that may aid them in their own journeys. Whether seeking to understand health and wellness better or simply looking for a companion in your thoughts on life, this book is for you.

Writing has been as enlightening as it has been challenging. It has reminded me of the importance of perseverance, self-reflection, and shared stories' transformative power. As you read these pages, I hope you find both solace and inspiration and perhaps a bit of your own story reflected in mine, forging a connection through our shared human experiences.

In these pages, I embark on a journey through time and memory, tracing the footsteps of my past to understand the path ahead better. Join me as I explore the profound impact of beginnings, such as the complexities of identity and the enduring quest for meaning in a world shaped by history and hope.

From the mistaken French-inspired name 'Rosabella' to my mother's deliberate choices of 'Virginia' as my middle name and the Spanish solid surnames Gonzalez and Quinones, my identity was shaped by layers of heritage and circumstance. But how can you share your story and truth without dishonoring the ones you love?

I deeply love my father and mother. However, I feel a strong sense of responsibility to share my story. As I write these pages, I strive to be as objective and truthful as possible, acknowledging that there will always be a subjective element. My intention is not to offend or dishonor anyone. When people, especially those who have known me since childhood, read this book, they will see that I have opened my heart and shared my experiences with the utmost respect, without embellishment or omission. My life has been shaped by learning experiences, both my own and others, and this book can offer a breath of fresh air, fostering learning and healing.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. Your companionship and understanding mean the world to me. May this book serve as a beacon of hope, strength, and love, a testament to the power of shared experiences and the resilience of the human spirit.

Warm regards,

 

Rosabel Zohfeld

The Courage to Succeed: A true American Dream; Book Series -Dedicatory

 

Dedicatory 

This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, whose unwavering love and boundless wisdom inspire me daily. Her spirit lives on these pages, guiding my journey with her enduring grace and strength.

To my beloved children, may you always find courage and joy in every step of your path. Your laughter and curiosity are my greatest treasures, and I hope this book serves as a testament to the power of love and resilience that she instilled in us all.

To my wonderful husband, whose steadfast support and love provides the foundation upon which I build my dreams. Your partnership means the world to me.

And to those angels called friends, whose kindness, understanding, and companionship make life's journey brighter and more meaningful. Your presence in my life is a gift I cherish deeply.

Keeping Hope Alive in Turbulent Times and Election Seasons

Google images 2024

In recent years, many of us have felt the weight of uncertainty, stress, and division, especially during election cycles. The constant barrage of news, debates, and political conflict can make the world feel unstable. However, even in these turbulent times, hope is not only possible but essential.

The first step in holding onto hope is to zoom out and recognize that turbulent times are not unique to our generation. History is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, filled with periods of political strife, economic uncertainty, and societal change. Yet, through these periods, societies have found ways to adapt, grow, and move forward. Understanding this larger context can reassure us that today's challenges are part of a broader, evolving human experience.

One of the most anxiety-inducing aspects of turbulent times is the feeling of being powerless. During election seasons, when political and societal forces seem overwhelming, it's easy to feel our efforts don't matter. But hope grows when we focus on what we can control.

Start with your actions. How can you contribute to positive change in your community? Remember, even the smallest, intentional actions can ripple outwards, Whether volunteering, having respectful conversations, or simply being kind to those around you. We may not control the outcome of elections or global events, but we control our responses and impact on others. This empowerment can fuel hope.

The constant cycle of news and social media can make the world feel more chaotic than it is. While staying informed is essential, excessive exposure to negative media can amplify feelings of hopelessness and fear.

Consider setting boundaries for your news consumption. Take breaks from social media, especially if it's causing you stress. Curate what you read and watch to include positive, uplifting stories. This could involve subscribing to newsletters that focus on inspiring news, following social media accounts that share positive stories, or setting specific times for news consumption to avoid constant exposure. You can maintain a more balanced, hopeful perspective by managing your media intake.

Human beings are not meant to navigate difficulties alone. One of the most powerful antidotes to fear and anxiety is connection. In times of uncertainty, lean on your community—family, friends, and even spiritual or professional networks. These networks can provide support, guidance, and a sense of belonging, helping you feel less isolated and more resilient in the face of challenges.

Conversations with others who share your concerns can help you feel grounded and understood. Conversely, engaging with people with different perspectives can offer a broader view and reduce feelings of division. Finding strength in the community reinforces the idea that we are all together, navigating the same challenges.

Practicing gratitude can be a lifeline in times of stress. Focusing on the good—no matter how small—can restore balance and perspective when the world feels overwhelming. Gratitude shifts our focus from what is going wrong to what is still correct.

Additionally, mindfulness practices, such as meditation or simply pausing and breathing, can help calm the mind and center you in the present moment. Instead of constantly worrying about the future, mindfulness helps us stay grounded today.

Stay grounded in what you believe is essential when the world feels chaotic. Your inner convictions, whether your faith, values or a sense of purpose, can provide an anchor amidst uncertainty.

For those of us who believe in something more significant—God, a higher power, or the enduring human spirit—these beliefs can give us hope even when things seem bleak. They remind us that, despite the present uncertainty, a more excellent plan or purpose is constantly unfolding. One possible unanswered question from the text might be: How can individuals maintain hope and positivity in the face of ongoing challenges and uncertainty?

Hope isn't passive; it's an active choice we make every day. Despite the turbulence of our times—political conflict, societal changes, or the pressures of daily life—we can choose hope. By staying grounded in our values, focusing on what we can control, and nurturing our connections with others, we can survive these times and find ways to thrive.

Remember, hope is not about ignoring challenges or pretending everything is fine. It's about acknowledging reality while holding onto the belief that we have the power to shape a better future. As we face turbulent times and the unpredictability of election seasons, may we choose hope and actively work to keep it alive. The possibility of a better future is always within our reach.

What Makes Us Human: The Brain's Unique Features

 

Orla/Getty images

The question of what makes us human has intrigued scientists, philosophers, and thinkers for centuries. The answer lies mainly within our brains, particularly the cerebrum, which distinguishes us from even our closest phylogenetic relatives—the great apes. By examining the anatomical and functional properties of the human brain, we can begin to understand the unique cognitive abilities that define our humanity.

The Human Brain: Anatomical Marvels that Inspire Awe

One of the most striking differences between humans and other great apes is our brain size. Humans possess a larger brain-to-body size ratio, known as the encephalization quotient (EQ), which correlates with advanced cognitive functions. The cerebral cortex, responsible for higher-order functions like reasoning and abstract thought, is highly developed in humans. This extensive development is particularly evident in the prefrontal cortex, the brain's command center for complex behaviors, decision-making, and social interactions.

The human brain's structural intricacies extend beyond size. Our brains boast more pronounced gyri (ridges) and sulci (grooves), increasing the cerebral cortex's surface area and allowing for more neurons and synaptic connections. This complex architecture is complemented by enhanced neural connectivity, with more extensive white matter facilitating efficient communication between different brain regions.

Functional Sophistication:

The Human Brain's Impressive Abilities in language, Executive Functions, and Social Cognition Humans' ability to use language is the most profound functional distinction. Specialized brain regions such as Broca's and Wernicke's areas support language production and comprehension, enabling us to convey and understand complex ideas. Mirror neurons, a unique feature of the human brain, play a crucial role in imitation and understanding others' actions. They further underpin our capacity for language and social behaviors, as they allow us to learn from others and understand their intentions.

The prefrontal cortex, a key region of the brain, supports executive functions, another hallmark of human cognition. This brain region allows us to engage in advanced planning, goal-setting, and decision-making. It also plays a crucial role in social interactions, as it is responsible for understanding and responding to social cues. Our capacity for abstract thinking enables problem-solving, creativity, and developing complex technologies—capabilities that set us apart from other species.

Social cognition is another area where humans excel. We possess an advanced theory of mind, the ability to attribute mental states to others, which is essential for empathy, cooperation, and social interactions. Our refined emotional regulation mechanisms, which help us manage and express our emotions appropriately, are crucial for navigating complex social structures and maintaining relationships.

Cognitive and Cultural Dimensions

Our cognitive abilities extend into the realm of symbolic thought. Humans uniquely create and appreciate art and music, reflecting our capacity for symbolism and abstract expression. The development of writing systems and mathematical concepts further demonstrates our ability to manipulate abstract ideas.

Cultural transmission is another defining feature of humanity. We live in complex, organized societies with intricate cultural practices, norms, and traditions passed down through generations. While other primates use tools, human tools exhibit a higher degree of complexity and innovation, driven by cumulative cultural evolution.

Self-awareness and Ethical Reasoning

Self-awareness and the ability to reflect on our thoughts and actions are human traits. Our heightened consciousness allows us to contemplate our existence, leading to moral and ethical reasoning development. Guided by cultural, religious, and philosophical principles, humans reflect profoundly on right and wrong, justice and fairness.

In essence, what makes us human is a unique combination of anatomical and functional properties of our brains, particularly the cerebrum. These features endow us with advanced cognitive abilities, enabling us to engage in complex social behaviors, create and share culture, and innovate in ways unparalleled by other great apes. As we continue to explore the mysteries of the human brain, we deepen our understanding of the essence of humanity itself. This journey promises to be as enlightening as it is infinite.

Why Do I think of Myself as A Cynic

Google images 2024

"Make yourself an honest man, and then you may be sure there is one rascal less in the world". -Thomas Carlyle

In a world where the culture of "el vivo vive del bobo y el bobo de papá y mamá" prevails, it's not hard to see why I might consider myself a cynic. This saying, which roughly translates to "the smart one lives off the fool, and the fool lives off mom and dad," encapsulates a mindset that is one of my biggest pet peeves. I have a deep-seated aversion to those who constantly blame everything but themselves for their circumstances—those who lament, "boo ho, poor me" while pointing fingers at their parents, the weather, or society at large.

I was raised on the premise that if you want something, you go get it. There was no waiting to see if it would fall from the sky. For me, no one owed me anything; that meant complete freedom. Growing up, I saw too much of the contrary, and even today, people seem content to bemoan their fate without taking any steps to change it. This pervasive attitude feeds my cynicism.

I grew up in a coastal city in northern Colombia, where the culture often mirrored the mentality -among other things I've come to disdain. Yet, amid this environment, my mother emerged as my hero. She was the embodiment of integrity and honesty. Her actions taught me the value of hard work and the futility of expecting handouts from anyone. She was a woman ahead of her time, instilling in me principles that seem almost alien in today's world.

While I love my dad, I can't say he is my hero in the same way. My mother demonstrated what it means to be self-reliant and steadfast in one's values. From her, I learned that life's rewards come to those who earn them, not those who sit and wait for them to be handed out.  

One of the aspects I dislike most is the entitled mentality, where people want things for free or believe that those who have them should automatically give to those who do not have them. Don't get me wrong, I am a big giver. I believe in generosity, but I prefer to teach someone how to fish rather than simply handing out fish. My mother used to say in Spanish, "Nadie sabe por dónde le llueve el agua al Molino," which means "No one knows where the water will rain down on the mill." This saying emphasizes the unpredictability of life and the necessity of being prepared and self-sufficient. It teaches that relying on others can be as uncertain as waiting for rain to fall in the right place; it's far better to cultivate one's resources and resilience.

This upbringing has profoundly shaped my worldview. I often feel like I'm from the wrong planet, an outsider in a society that too frequently celebrates victimhood and entitlement over accountability and resilience. My cynicism isn't born of bitterness but frustration with a culture that seems to have lost its way, a culture that too often forgets that progress is made by those who take responsibility for their own lives.

So yes, I sometimes think of myself as a cynic, more like a skeptic based on my life experiences. But it's a cynicism grounded in believing we can and should do better; It's a call to return to the values of hard work, self-reliance, and integrity—values that my mother lived by and passed down to me. In a world where the "el vivo vive del bobo y el bobo de papá y mamá" mentality still thrives, I will continue to hold on to the lessons she taught me, ever the cynic and believer in personal responsibility.

Recognizing the Strength in Humility and Lifelong Learning

 “People fail to get along because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don’t know each other; they don’t know each other because they have not communicated with each other.” -Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.

Google images 2024

I started in the medical field in 2007 and have experienced many roles and responsibilities. My journey, from obtaining a Bachelor of Science in Nursing in 2014 to earning a Master’s Degree in Nursing Education and a Post-Master’s Degree as a Family Nurse Practitioner, has been both challenging and rewarding. I have been a nurse for ten years now, but before that, I was a stress tech working for a busy cardiology practice; then, I moved to work as an EMT while working on my BSN, slowly starting my career as an RN in the emergency department. I could also cross-train as a PACU nurse and do both simultaneously, serve in the ER as needed, and do pre-op, post-op, and PACU, all while studying to become a nurse practitioner later and raising a family. 

Since the summer of 2020, I’ve proudly served as a Nurse Practitioner, a role that has solidified my belief in the value of kindness, continuous learning, and humility. For instance, my willingness to learn from my mistakes and from others has helped me improve my patient care and communication skills. This has enhanced my professional growth and fostered a more collaborative and respectful work environment. Although I feel this is a daily learning experience, one of my life's goals is to continue to improve my communication skills. 

I am a lifelong learner, constantly immersing myself in the role of a student. This commitment to learning is a professional necessity and a personal passion that brings me immense joy. The process of acquiring new knowledge and skills is a path I willingly embrace, and I hope to inspire others to do the same. This openness to learning, sometimes leading to a perception of being a know-it-all, is rooted in a genuine interest in engaging with the world around me rather than asserting superiority.

In my interactions with colleagues, I deeply respect their expertise and roles. Each individual brings a unique set of strengths and areas of expertise. However, it’s disheartening to observe, at times, how some individuals feel a sense of superiority based on their experience or education. This hierarchy can be detrimental, as it overlooks the value of each person's expertise. Just because one person excels in one area does not diminish the value of another’s expertise in a different domain. It's important to remember that we all have something valuable to contribute.

Humility and humbleness are often misunderstood concepts. Humility does not imply a failure to recognize our achievements but acknowledging our fallibility. It means accepting and learning from our mistakes and listening to others when necessary. On the other hand, humbleness is a more outward expression of humility, often seen in our interactions with others. It’s about understanding that no matter how much we know, there is always room for growth and improvement.

In the spirit of humility, I often remind myself and others not to mistake kindness for weakness. Kindness is a strength that fosters collaboration and understanding. It’s a quality that should be cherished and respected, not exploited. By valuing kindness, we can create an environment where everyone feels appreciated and respected. For instance, showing kindness in our interactions with colleagues can lead to better teamwork and more effective patient care.

As we navigate our professional and personal lives, let’s remember the importance of humility, continuous learning, and respect for one another’s unique contributions. These values enhance our lives and enrich the communities and fields in which we work. Ultimately, it’s not just about what we achieve but how we achieve it, with kindness and humility guiding our way. This reassurance and guidance can help us all strive for excellence in our work, and I hope it inspires you to do the same.

Behind a window

Google images 2024

by Rosabel Zohfeld

Behind a window, behind a curtain's fold, 

A man, a woman, a husband, a wife,

a mother, a father,

 a grandpa, a grandma, 

Watch silently as their loved one ascends, 

Rising to the occasion where destiny blends.

Through challenging moments, they stood steadfast and true, 

Guiding with wisdom, as only loved ones do,

 through thin and thick, for better or for worse, 

They helped them shine, and their love is an eternal verse.

In quiet admiration, their hearts beat in rhyme, 

Witnessing triumph forged in the furnace of time, 

For love knows no bounds, distance, or blur;

they cheer from afar, a constellation's allure.

Behind that window, behind that gentle veil,

is a family's bond, an unwavering tale of support, 

hope and dreams unfolding as they watch their dear ones,

brave and bold.