My name has been added to the 50 States Marathon Finisher List. With this milestone achieved, I’m ready to set my sights on the next big adventure: the Gobi March in Mongolia, scheduled for June 2026.
To prepare, I need to focus on improving my fitness by shedding a few pounds. My plan is to tackle the 75 Hard Challenge starting tomorrow.
After getting in shape, I will prepare for Gobi. Then After Gobi, I’ve decided to embark on the El Camino de Santiago pilgrimage in September. I intend on going solo, as I believe the journey’s true essence lies in experiencing it alone. While there was initial interest from a group of fellow marathon acquaintances keen on joining, I feel this trek demands a more personal, solitary approach.
From a previous post I find that rest simply isn’t an option for me. Recently, I’ve felt restless, especially during weekends when my time hasn’t been spent productively. Time is ticking, and I want to ensure it doesn’t slip away.
Deciding to go after the Gobi March hasn’t been without doubts. Stories of extreme challenges, such as a participant who suffered severe dehydration and was left brain-dead, or the harrowing tale of two runners caught in a brush fire during a race in Western Australia, gave me pause. But after some deliberation, I turned to my trusted “Coin of Indecision,” which I flip when faced with tough choices. Naturally, it landed on “Yes, do it!” and so, the decision was made.
This incredible journey all began in the simplest way: spinning a globe and letting my finger land on a random location……Mongolia. It’s funny how moments like these spark life-changing adventures. And now, here we go—ready for what’s next!
That’s the question I’ve been asked over and over this week. And honestly? My answer is: I don’t know.
Maybe I’ll write a book. Maybe I’ll walk the El Camino de Santiago. Maybe I’ll sign up for Racing the Planet’s Gobi March in Mongolia — a 155-mile ultramarathon through some of the toughest terrain on Earth. Maybe I’ll just start going to the gym again. Maybe I’ll focus on speed puzzling. Maybe I’ll move to Hawaii. Maybe I’ll train hard, get faster, and try to qualify for the Boston Marathon.
Or maybe — just maybe — I’ll rest.
But then I wonder: Do I have to be doing something constantly?
Unfortunately, the answer in my head is always: Yes. Time is ticking. I’m going to die. There’s no time for rest. I need to keep moving.
Running a marathon in all 50 states gave my life a clear purpose. It grounded me. I’m proud I achieved that goal.
Life keeps moving ahead, and by now, you should know that. I wait for my moment, but in the meantime, I make the most of each day. Life moves on. This morning, I ran a 5K in under 30 minutes. My focus is shifting towards speed training, hoping to shed some pounds and stay healthy. Life keeps moving onward.
Closure came today as we said our final goodbye and laid our beloved Queen to rest. The procession of vehicles, moving in a single line to the cemetery, left me in awe. It dawned on me that we were all here—descendants, relatives, grandchildren, cousins—because of her. She brought us together, even in death. Grandma’s journey began when she left her home in Aguascalientes at the young age of 19, making her way to El Paso, Texas. She was incredibly brave to embark on that path alone.
The services began yesterday, and I was honored to deliver the eulogy. My memories of her are vivid and cherished—she was a central figure in my upbringing. Even after her Alzheimer’s diagnosis and the slow decline that followed, I made it a point to stay connected, to continue communicating with her. Throughout it all, she remained resilient.
Today, we laid her to rest. It feels surreal to think that her presence is no longer with us. The finality of death is, without a doubt, the hardest thing to process.
Below is the eulogy I shared in her honor:
Grandma is one of the toughest women I’ve ever known. Grandma faced and overcame countless challenges in life, living to the ripe age of 93.
The way our family home acreage was divided Grandma and Grandpa lived in the front lot, while Aunt and Uncle lived in the back lot. So, yes, Grandma was a central figure in my upbringing.
Whenever mom needed a break from me, she’d send me next door to hang out with Grandma, Aunt Irene or Uncle Frank and I loved it because there I was treated like royalty. I enjoyed messing around with the white guitar that Grandpa kept in the living room and grandma never hushed me. Ok, maybe once when she was trying to watch an interesting segment of that show “Christina”.
Grandma never learned how to drive, so whenever Mom needed to go out and Grandma needed something, we’d always make sure to take her with us. I remember thrift store shopping with Mom and Grandma—it was a favorite pastime of ours. I’d be in the phase of hunting for cool vintage clothes, while Mom and Grandma could spend hours sifting through piles of rags and fabrics.
I also remember long drives across the border with Mom and Grandma after visiting Tia Olga or stopping by the doctor. I’d sit in the back seat and have my headphones on, listening to music, while Mom and Grandma chatted as we idled in the long border lines to get back into El Paso. This is where I would often witness Grandma’s kind heart as she gave pesos to people selling chicklets or those simply begging on the streets. Despite not having much herself, she always stopped to give, and that made a lasting impression on me.
We grew up going to church, and since Grandma couldn’t drive, we would always stop to pick her up to give her a ride to church service. Grandma would get in the vehicle and always sat in the front seat, and I’d be relegated to the back. We would get to church, and I’d often listen to her talk to all her church friends, whom we all affectionately called “Hermanas.”
I was quite the tomboy back then, and Grandma would always correct my posture at church and encouraged me to act more like a lady. I remember once sitting slouched in church, probably wearing a dress Mom had made for me. Grandma gently guided me to sit up straight. She was stern but caring.
Grandma made the best tamales, hands down. No argument there. There came a time when it became too difficult for her to make them, but I’ll never forget how she used to test the “masa” by dropping a small piece into a glass of water to see if it floated. As a kid, I thought it was a clever trick. As an adult, I now understand that the buoyancy of the “masa” is what makes the tamales so delicious. Yep, Grandma made the best tamales.
I also remember visiting Grandma’s house and often helping her with the dishes. I’m not sure why I enjoyed the chore, but I did. Grandma would always have a pot on the left side of the sink, filled with a mixture of water, Clorox, and dish soap for cleaning and scrubbing. She didn’t like to waste water, and she taught me that running water was only for rinsing. Another memory that sticks with me is when I would help her wash clothes by hand outside at the “tendedero.” She used a big blue bar of soap to scrub Grandpa’s SNA Nut Company shirts.
I also recall how worried Grandma was when Grandpa cut his finger at work. I was young, so she tried to shield me from the details, but I could see how deeply concerned she was for him.
There are so many lessons, so many memories. Mom and Grandma were inseparable, at least up until I graduated high school. When I left home for college, Mom got a job, and we started noticing that Grandma was exhibiting signs of Alzheimer’s. I’ll spare the details, but I always tried to visit her when I was back in Chaparral, even during the time when Mom and Grandma weren’t getting along.
When I left Chaparral for college up North. I would stop by to visit and on my return, Grandma always liked to bless me with prayer before I made the four-hour drive back up to Albuquerque. I remember her telling me how proud she was of me
I would always joke with Grandma, telling her I was her favorite grandchild, but I knew she loved us all the same. However, she was my favorite grandma.
One time, Grandma asked me if I ever thought about getting married. I told her no, that I hadn’t found anyone. She replied, “Well, you better hurry up, or ‘Se te va ir el tren,’” which translates to, “You’d better find someone, or the train is going to leave you.” Then, I met Mike and brought him home to meet Grandma. She was happy for me, I could tell. Her way of showing it? She looked at Mike and said, “¡Qué narizon!” which means, “What a big nose!” That’s how I knew she approved.
Grandma’s bluntness was just part of her endearing, strong character. She always made me laugh, even if most people didn’t understand her humor.
If Grandma ever offered you food or drink and you kindly turned it down, she would always say, “¡Ay, pues chulo!”
Goodbye, Grandma. I will always carry the Christian values you instilled in me. You were strong and courageous, but underneath all that toughness, you had the kindest heart. Please know Mom misses you, and in her own struggle, she still calls out for you.
I won’t go into all the details, but I’m proud of myself for making it to a screening assessment today. I’m really focusing on not ignoring the early signs of potential health issues that could affect me later. I left work early to make it to a diagnostic imaging procedure, and I have to say, I’m amazed at how technology can help detect future problems. The test is done now, but the radiologist wasn’t available to review the results right away. I’ll be waiting to hear more on how to proceed. I’m optimistic it is nothing serious.
I attended the Lady Gators basketball game against Mississippi State, and it was an electrifying finish that ended with a buzzer-beater. The crowd erupted into cheers, and everyone was on their feet.
The game was entertaining, especially since we were seated right on the sideline behind the west hoop. This gave us a perfect view of the Mississippi State bench and their coaching staff, adding to the intensity of the experience.
One of my biggest takeaways from the game was observing the fans’ reactions when they appeared on the jumbo-tron. It’s fascinating to watch the sequence unfold. The camera typically zooms in on someone, and as soon as they notice, they point to their neighbor and tap them on the shoulder, signaling to look up. The neighbor’s reaction is priceless—eyes widen in surprise, followed by a big smile, applause, and spontaneous laughter. Then a quick search for the camera operator, as if they’ve just experienced a fleeting moment of fame among the crowd. It’s a heartwarming sight that always brings a smile to my face, and I can’t help but eagerly wait for my own moment on that screen!
I discovered Germaine Dulac’s work after watching La Souriante Madame Beudet last night, and I’m fascinated. This 1923 French Impressionist silent film left a poignant impression with its portrayal of a troubled marriage. The symbolic elements throughout the flick sparked my curiosity about Dulac’s cinematic style. The mise-en-scène, along with the juxtaposition of the visual and narrative elements, transformed the film into a vivid exploration of the protagonist’s inner world—her daydreams and her quiet despair. The powerful closing scene encapsulates the disillusioned continuance of the marriage with the haunting line “United by Habit.”
I’m reaching out to share that I’m shifting my perspective. I’ve realized that my words have been filled with negativity, often reflecting my frustration with the situations in life. But I’ve come to understand that it’s not what happens to us, but how we respond, that shapes who we become. I choose to embrace a more stoic approach, accepting life as it is while focusing on growth through challenges. While I may never fully make sense of everything, I’m determined to keep trying, as no one really has all the answers. What matters to me now is making the most of my existence—overcoming challenges but also transforming them into something positive, a source of light to uplift those around me. I want to bring joy, make a positive impact, and connect with you in a meaningful way. Above all, I want you to truly understand me.
Today, during my lunch break, I called Robin. I’m not entirely sure if it’s spelled “Robin” or “Robyn,” but she’s mom’s hospice case nurse.
Yesterday as I was flying back to Florida from Southern New Mexico, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we might be missing something. “Maybe there’s some treatment we haven’t explored yet, or perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation for this whole situation that I just haven’t grasped.” I thought.
I didn’t arrange for hospice care—my brother did that when he was still speaking to us. But after the transition, he stopped communicating with either me or my father. I don’t even know how it went from a memory care facility to hospice care. I always thought hospice was just for the very end, but I’ve since learned it’s about making someone with a terminal illness as comfortable as possible and can go on for over a year.
Over the weekend, while I was caring for mom and giving dad a break, it felt like we were just giving up. It didn’t seem like we were doing anything to help her—it was just about managing pain and trying to calm her agitation.
Today, during my lunch break, I called Robyn. I needed to hear directly from someone who could give me a clear answer. I asked her, “Is there no hope? Can we not try anything else?”
She was kind but firm. “Your mom is in the final stages of dementia.” She read through a list of evaluation metrics that would classify her under the hospice treatment. Can she do this..…… Can she do that……… Does she know……… all answers were “No.”
“I know it’s hard.” Robin said.
As I reflect this certainly progressed quickly—what was Stage 3 is now Stage 6, all in less than a year. “We’re doing everything we can to keep her comfortable.” Robyn said.
I sat with that for a moment. “Ok” I told her. “Thank you.” I think I just needed to hear it out loud from a reliable source.
As I sit here reflecting, a part of me—the part that’s always been relentless or perhaps just stubborn—refuses to believe this is the end. Maybe I’m in denial, and I just don’t want to accept it.
This weekend, while sitting next to mom in a rare moment of stillness, she turned to me and asked, “You’re not scared of anything, are you?”
Today, I’ve reached 42. I’m filled with gratitude, as not everyone is fortunate enough to make it this far, and in decent health too. This year has been a tough one, watching both myself and those around me age. As time passes, I find myself longing for youthfulness, vitality, and longevity. If there’s one thing I truly struggle with, it’s the process of aging.
While my cognitive abilities remain sharp, family members have become forgetful of things—like my birthday. I’ve also started spotting some white hairs on my scalp, thankfully there is an easy solution for that as I’ll continue to mask them with dye as long as I can. Thankfully there are not many wrinkles yet, and I’ll work to stave those off with whatever measures possible.
Some health metrics are beginning to show signs of decline, as expected, but I remain committed to attempting to eat well and staying active. I’m especially thankful that I can still run—it’s my stress reliever and my key to staying vibrant for years to come.
Here’s to another year, filled with hope and the potential for more life ahead.
Journaling was Recommended 