Life

Exile: What Dreaming in Cuban, Baldwin, Bell, and Díaz Teach Us About America Right Now

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Over the past couple of months, my reading list has unintentionally turned into a syllabus on identity, displacement, and the messy business of becoming American. I’ve gone from James Baldwin’s searing essays to Derrick Bell’s unflinching legal parables, from Junot Díaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, to my current read Cristina García’s Dreaming in Cuban. Apparently, I’ve been curating a literary support group for people who live in the in‑between, the exiled, the hybrid, the children of diaspora who carry histories we didn’t choose but still feel responsible for. And honestly? It’s been hitting a little too close to home. As a Colombian‑American born here but raised in the gravitational pull of another homeland, I’ve been reading these books like someone looking for a map of a country that doesn’t exist on paper, only in memory, imagination, and family stories told over café con leche.

Cristina García’s Dreaming in Cuban is a multigenerational novel that follows the del Pino women, a family split not just by geography, but by politics, memory, and the emotional aftershocks of exile. The story moves between Cuba and the United States from the 1930s through the 1980s, weaving together the lives of three generations of women who are all, in their own ways, trying to make sense of the past they inherited and the futures they’re building. At the center is Celia del Pino, the family matriarch, whose unwavering devotion to the Cuban Revolution becomes both her anchor and her undoing. She writes decades’ worth of letters to her lost lover, Gustavo, letters her children never see until long after her life has hardened into myth. Celia stays in Cuba, but she becomes emotionally exiled from her own family.

Her daughters take opposite paths.

Lourdes, the eldest, flees Cuba after a traumatic assault and reinvents herself in New York as a fiercely patriotic, hyper‑American entrepreneur. She loves the United States with the intensity of someone who needs that love to mean something. Her Americanness is a shield, a performance, a survival strategy.

Felicia, the middle daughter, remains in Cuba but spirals into psychological turmoil. Her life is marked by an abusive marriage, mental illness, and a desperate search for spiritual meaning. She is exiled inside her own mind, and her children grow up trying to understand a mother they can never fully reach.

And then there’s Pilar, Lourdes’s daughter, the bridge between worlds. Born in Cuba but raised in the U.S., Pilar feels a psychic pull toward her grandmother Celia, a connection that transcends distance and politics. She grows up caught between two homelands, two histories, two versions of herself. When she finally travels to Cuba as a young woman, she finds clarity but not belonging. Her identity remains hybrid, layered, beautifully unresolved.

The novel moves through their memories, letters, dreams, and visions, showing how exile fractures families not just across borders but across time. Every woman in this family is shaped by what she knows, what she doesn’t know, and what she learns too late.

Cuba, Then and Now: A Country That Won’t Sit Still

Cuba has been in the news again, protests, shortages, political crackdowns, the same cycle of hope and heartbreak that has defined the island for decades. But none of this is new. Cuba’s modern history is a story of revolutions that promised liberation but delivered new forms of control; of families split across oceans; of people forced to choose between homeland and survival. The Cuban Revolution of 1959 reshaped the island, but it also reshaped Miami, New Jersey, New York, every place where Cuban exiles rebuilt their lives.

García’s Dreaming in Cuban captures this history not through dates and speeches, but through the emotional wreckage it leaves behind. Celia’s devotion to El Líder, Lourdes’s fierce rejection of Cuba, Felicia’s unraveling, these are the human consequences of political upheaval, and so, reading this now, in a moment when Cuba is once again erupting, feels like watching history refuse to stay in the past.

This is where García’s novel becomes almost too real. Exile isn’t just about leaving a country; for me it’s about leaving stories untold.

Celia’s unread letters.
Felicia’s daughters piecing together her life like detectives.
Pilar longing for a grandmother she barely knows but feels spiritually tethered to.

This is exile as inheritance.
Exile as a family secret.
Exile as a silence that shapes identity as much as any homeland, and if you grew up in a Latinx household, you know this intimately. Our families are full of stories that only come out in fragments, whispered, half‑remembered, or revealed decades later when the damage is already done.

What’s struck me most in these past months of reading, Baldwin, Bell, García, and now Díaz; is how their ideas braid together almost effortlessly, as if they’ve all been sitting at the same table arguing about identity, exile, and America long before I showed up with my highlighters. Baldwin reminds me that identity is forged in tension, in the friction between who we are and who the nation insists we be. Pilar lives in that friction. She isn’t American because she rejects Cuba; she’s American because she refuses to amputate any part of herself. She holds both worlds, both histories, both longings, without apology. Bell, on the other hand, exposes the contradictions baked into America’s racial and political systems. When I look at Lourdes through Bell’s lens, her hyper‑patriotism suddenly makes sense. Her Americanness isn’t naïve; it’s strategic. It’s armor. Reinvention becomes her survival tactic in a country that has never been neutral terrain for immigrants. Then Díaz enters the chat with the language of inherited trauma, the idea that history clings to families like a shadow you can’t shake. Pilar’s psychic pull toward Celia, or Luz and Milagro trying to decode Felicia’s life, feels like pure Díaz: the fukú of diaspora, the blessing and curse of carrying stories you didn’t choose but still shape you.

Together, these writers form a kind of chorus, not always harmonious, but always truthful. They tell us that identity is layered. That exile doesn’t end with the person who leaves. That belonging is a negotiation, not a birthright, and that America, for people like us, has never been simple.

This is the part we don’t like to say out loud, but we all know it’s true.

America loves immigrant labor, immigrant food, immigrant culture, but historically, it has not loved immigrants. From the Chinese Exclusion Act to the treatment of Cuban rafters in the 1990s to the rhetoric around Latin American migrants today, the pattern is painfully consistent. Immigrants are welcomed when convenient, scapegoated when politically useful, and rarely granted the full humanity they deserve. García’s novel shows us the emotional cost of this. Lourdes builds her Americanness out of discipline and defiance because she knows this country will not give her the benefit of the doubt. Pilar grows up negotiating two identities because America demands clarity where her life offers complexity, and in today’s political climate, where immigration is once again a battleground, their stories feel eerily contemporary. For those of us who grew up with one foot in the U.S. and one in Colombia, Cuba, the DR, Mexico, or anywhere else in the world, García’s novel feels like a mirror.

We know what it’s like to inherit stories in fragments.
We know what it’s like to feel nostalgia for a place we’ve only visited in memory.
We know what it’s like to navigate a country that loves our culture but not always our people.

Exile, for us, isn’t dramatic. It’s subtle.
A hum beneath the surface.
A reminder that identity is something we build and rebuild every day.

In the End…

Dreaming in Cuban doesn’t give us answers. It gives us language. It gives us permission to be plural. It gives us a way to understand the silences in our families and the fractures in our histories. In a moment when America is once again arguing about who gets to belong, García reminds us of a truth Baldwin, Bell, and Díaz have been shouting for decades:

Belonging is not something the nation grants.
It’s something we live, claim, and carry, across borders, across generations, across time.

Work Cited

Baldwin, James. Going to Meet the Man. Vintage International, 1995.

Bell, Derrick. Faces at the Bottom of the Well: The Permanence of Racism. Basic Books, 1992.

Díaz, Junot. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Riverhead Books, 2007.

García, Cristina. Dreaming in Cuban. Vintage Contemporaries, 1992.

Gott, Richard. Cuba: A New History. Yale University Press, 2004.

Pérez, Louis A., Jr. Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution. 5th ed., Oxford University Press, 2014.

Had I Not Known You

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Dearest,

An old wound stirred today. Your name was spoken in passing, and though I answered with the composure expected of me, a truer, quieter ache unfurled beneath the surface. There are chambers of the heart I keep locked from the world, and you reside in one of them still. I guard it fiercely, for it contains remnants of you that I cannot bear to expose to careless hands.

Your memory sent me wandering through the remnants of your life as it appears in the public sphere. I ventured down but a single avenue, and even that proved more than enough. To any stranger, those pages would reveal nothing of the soul I knew, nothing of the depth, the contradictions, the warmth, the shadows. It was as though the record of your existence had been scrubbed clean, leaving only a hollow likeness, a figure made of surface and suggestion. Had I not known you myself, I might have mistaken you for one of those flimsy characters we encounter in this modern age, all outward show, with no hint of the true spirit within.

They tell me you left a message for me, and the confirmation of it today unsettled me more than I expected. I cannot say whether it is true, nor whether truth even matters in such things. Yet a small part of me longs to know what your final words to me might have been. There is sorrow in realizing that the chapter we once shared feels, at times, as though it never existed, as though it were a scene dreamt up in some forgotten novel, lingering only in the margins of memory. And yet it was one of the most vivid experiences of my life.

I loved you with a depth I scarcely understood then, and the knowledge that I shall never again exchange even the smallest jest with you, never again pause to wonder whether to continue our conversations or let them fade for fear of entanglement, brings a heaviness I cannot easily name.

Sometimes I weep for what was lost. Other times, I weep for what was gained: the understanding that something larger than either of us was at work, even if I have yet to see its full shape. I imagine you see it clearly now, wherever you are. I, meanwhile, remain here, still wondering what might have been, could have been, or should have been, though I know I ought not dwell on such thoughts.

I cannot deny that I miss you still. I cannot deny that some part of me longs for a thread of connection, however faint. Special people insist that you linger near, that you visit in ways unseen, but I feel nothing of the sort, and so I do not know what to believe.

And so I sit beneath these ashen winter skies, watching the snow descend in its solemn procession, each flake a small benediction upon the earth. In that hush, I find myself hoping, not with desperation, but with a kind of reverent longing, that you have at last discovered the peace that eluded you here. The world moves on with its usual indifference, yet there are moments when the veil feels thin, when the cold air carries a tenderness I cannot name, and I am reminded that grief is simply love that has nowhere left to go. If you can hear such things where you are now, then know this: the memory of you has not dimmed, nor has the quiet truth of what little of life was shared. It endures, even in the silence, even in the snow.

We’re Dangling Man, 1940’s Style

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Some books don’t just sit quietly on your nightstand. They tap you on the shoulder, clear their throat, and say, “Hey… you feeling this too?”

That was me with Saul Bellow’s Dangling Man. A novel written and published in 1944, set in 1942, and yet the story somehow still feels like it crawled out of the group chat in 2026.

Joseph, the protagonist, spends the entire book suspended in bureaucratic limbo, waiting to be drafted, waiting for direction, waiting for life to make sense again. He calls himself a “dangling man,” and honestly… same, Joseph. Same. Because if there’s one thing that defines our current era, it’s the sensation of hanging by a thread while pretending we’re totally fine. We’re all dangling: between jobs, between identities, between versions of ourselves, between whatever the world used to be and whatever it’s becoming next.

And the wild part? Bellow already wrote the manual for this feeling nearly eighty years ago.

The World Was Supposed to Be Stable… Until It Wasn’t

Joseph’s world is full of things that used to feel solid: work, marriage, purpose, the future. But everything is suddenly unpredictable, and he’s left pacing around his apartment, journaling his way through an existential identity crisis.

Sound familiar?

We’re living in a time where the things that once felt steady, careers, housing, relationships, the economy, the climate, the general vibe of society, now feel like they’re held together with duct tape and a prayer. We’re all trying to figure out where the heck we’re going, and half the time we’re doing it in sweatpants.

Joseph would fit right in.

Mid‑century America loved the Hemingway hero: stoic, decisive, emotionally bulletproof. Joseph is… none of that. He’s anxious, introspective, moody, and painfully aware of his own contradictions. He’s the guy who overthinks a simple conversation for three pages.

And honestly? That feels more heroic now than ever, because today’s “hero” isn’t the person who has it all figured out. It’s the person who admits they don’t. The one who says, “Yeah, I’m dangling, but I’m still here.” The one who keeps showing up even when the world feels like a malfunctioning vending machine that ate your last dollar.

Joseph walked so our modern existential dread could run.

We’re Basically Back in 1940’s, Just With Better Snacks

There’s something strangely comforting about realizing that uncertainty isn’t new. People in the 1940s were also wandering around asking big questions like:

  • Who am I now?
  • What happens next?
  • Why does everything feel like it’s shifting under my feet?
  • And why is bureaucracy always the villain?

Swap out “draft board” for “customer service portal” and Joseph’s life is basically ours.

We’re all dangling between eras, between what the world was and what it’s becoming. Between the person we thought we’d be and the one we’re trying to grow into. Between stability and whatever this chaotic, transitional chapter is.

It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It’s deeply human.

Here’s the thing Bellow doesn’t say outright, but Joseph’s whole existence hints at:

Dangling is where transformation happens.

It’s the in‑between space where you’re not who you were, but not yet who you’re becoming. It’s awkward, like puberty for the soul. But it’s also fertile ground, the place where new identities, new choices, and new directions start to take shape.

And yes, it’s uncomfortable. And yes, it sometimes feels like the universe forgot to hit “unpause” on your life. But dangling also means you’re in motion, even if it doesn’t look like it yet.

So What Do We Do With All This?

Maybe we take a page from Joseph, not the spiraling part (we’ve got that down), but the honesty. The willingness to sit with the uncertainty instead of pretending it’s not there. The courage to admit that the world is shifting and we’re shifting with it.

Maybe dangling isn’t a failure. Maybe it’s a season.

A strange, transitional, slightly chaotic season, but a season nonetheless.

And if Joseph could survive dangling in 1942, maybe we can survive dangling in 2026. Preferably with better coffee, more therapy, and fewer existential monologues in our pajamas… but no promises.

Barks Are Loud, but Snores Tell the Story: A Sitter’s Guide to Canine Melodies

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Don’t get me wrong, I know my “woofs.” As a dog sitter, I’ve learned that a bark is a language of its own. I can hear the difference between the “there’s a squirrel” yip and the “hey, I’m hungry” huff. But if you really want to know a dog’s soul? You have to listen to them sleep.
While barks have character, snores have personality. In my time pet sitting, I’ve found that snores are the ultimate “tell.” They are unique, often hilarious, and frequently make zero sense compared to the dog they’re coming from. It’s a symphony of sleep that I’ve come to recognize better than any wagging tail or pointed ear.

The Great “Size vs. Sound” Mystery

The most entertaining part of my job is the “Identity Crisis” snore. You’d think a dog’s sleep sounds would match their stature, but in the canine world, the physics of sound work a little differently.

  • The Delicate Giant: I’ve looked after massive, “ferocious” barkers, dogs with a deep, chest-rattling boom that sounds like a thunderstorm. Yet, when they hit the pillow? They emit the daintiest, softest little skips of breath you’ve ever heard. It’s like a tiny bird trapped in a bear’s body.
  • The Pocket-Sized Powerhouse: Then there are the tiny ones. I once sat for a dog no bigger than a loaf of bread who managed to out-snore my significant other. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a rhythmic, house-shaking roar that defied the laws of biology.

The “Snoreshelf”: A Field Guide

Every dog brings their own unique “instrument” to the sleep orchestra. Here are the most common ones I’ve encountered:

| Snore Type | The Sound | The Vibe |
| The Flutter-Leaf | A soft, rhythmic thrum-thrum of the lips. | Pure, unadulterated peace. |


| The Old Man Humbug | A series of low, grumbly sighs and nasal whistles. | Sounds like they’re complaining about the price of kibble in their dreams. |


| The Steam Engine | A heavy, chugging inhale followed by a dramatic “pfffft!” | Usually belongs to a dog who spent the day doing “big jobs” (like napping). |


| The Deflating Balloon | A high-pitched squeal that slowly fades out. | Hilarious, confusing, and totally endearing. |


Why the Noise Makes My Heart Melt

There is something so deeply rewarding about a dog snoring in your care. A bark is often a demand or a warning, but a snore? A snore is a compliment.
It means they’ve reached that level of deep, heavy REM sleep where they feel completely safe. When the house is quiet and I hear those bizarre, mismatched, and sometimes confusing nasal melodies, I can’t help but smile. They aren’t just sleeping; they’re telling me they’re home.
Barks might tell me what they want, but the snores tell me they’re happy.

The Bell, The Door, The Manager Who Wasn’t Ready

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

When I dropped Ishka off at the groomer’s today, I found myself asking a very simple question: Why do some people wake up and choose unpleasantries? Like… is it a hobby? A lifestyle? A calling?

Our appointment was at 8 a.m. 

I arrived at 8:04, which, in dog‑parent time, is basically early. I’m juggling my purse, my keys, and a very excited Ishka who is doing full‑body wiggles in my arms. I sprint up to the automatic doors… and they don’t open. Not even a pity shudder. Just a cold, silent “no.”

This is confusing because they also book 7 a.m. appointments, which implies that human beings should be inside. I stand there for a solid five minutes, watching the cleaning crew zip past me like I’m a ghost they’ve sworn not to acknowledge. They’re doing Olympic‑level eye‑avoidance. I could’ve been holding a sign that said “HELP ME” and they still would’ve stared at the floor like it owed them money.

Fine. I go back to my car and call.

They answer immediately.

“Hi, I have an 8 a.m. appointment but the doors won’t open.”

“That’s because we’re closed. I’ll be right out.” 

Click.

No goodbye. No “hold on one moment.” Just a dial tone and the faint sound of my patience evaporating.

I look at Ishka, who has finally settled into a cozy little loaf in my arms, and apologize for the emotional whiplash she’s about to experience.

I walk back to the door, dodging puddles and salt piles like I’m navigating a booby‑trapped temple. The manager unlocks the door, looks at me, and says:

“Didn’t ring the bell?”

I blink. “Hi, good morning… I’m sorry… what?”

She gestures toward the world’s tiniest button: a microscopic dot all the way to the far right of the doors. Beneath it is an equally microscopic sign that says, Ring Bell During Off Business Hours. You would need a magnifying glass, a flashlight, and a prayer to notice it.

“You’re supposed to ring the bell,” she repeats, smiling at the neighboring business like she’s just solved world hunger.

“Well, no one mentioned a bell when I booked,” I say, already over this conversation. “But now I know for next time.”

I walk past her into the groomer’s office, where I’m greeted by a young woman who looks like she woke up ten minutes ago and lost the battle with her alarm clock. Honestly, same,  but I’m not the one holding scissors near someone’s dog.

Here’s my issue: 

If you’re going to schedule grooming appointments before business hours, maybe, just maybe, tell people about the secret doorbell. Send a text. Leave a voicemail. Train a carrier pigeon. Anything.

And if you’re the manager opening the store, maybe keep an eye on the door instead of assuming customers will magically intuit the existence of a button the size of a Tic Tac.

It blows my mind how often customers are treated like we’re inconveniencing a business by… going to the business. And spending money. Wild concept.

And don’t even get me started on mobile groomers. I’ve left voicemails. I’ve sent emails. I’ve practically begged. Not a single call back. At this point, I’m convinced mobile groomers are a myth, like unicorns, or people who enjoy folding fitted sheets.

What happened to customer service? When did sarcasm become the default setting? Why is kindness treated like an optional add‑on? The manager’s tone this morning was unnecessary, unhelpful, and honestly exhausting. Being rude takes effort. Being kind is free. And yet here we are.

Anyway, Ishka got her bath. I got a story. And next time, I’ll be ringing that microscopic bell like I’m summoning a butler in a Victorian mansion.

Who Are They Without Us? A Playful Rant About a Not‑So‑Playful Problem

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Let’s be honest: it’s a true shame that we, as a society, have let the ruling class, the infamous 1%, treat us like background characters in the story of their own wealth. And the wildest part? We’ve practically handed them the pen. If we hadn’t let them divide and conquer us over the last several years, imagine what we could do together. Imagine the power we’d have if we remembered the one thing we all share: we are the consumers who keep the entire machine running.
And yet… look at what we’re getting in return.

The Quality Is Down, the Prices Are Up, and Somehow We’re Still Saying “Thank You”

Consumers across the country are noticing something is off, and it’s not just you being picky. According to a 2025 Axios/Harris Poll, 69% of Americans say the quality of everyday products has noticeably declined, even as prices continue to skyrocket. Businesses are passing along higher costs, padding profits, and delivering worse products. A magical trifecta, if you’re a CEO.
And customer service? Don’t get me started. The American Customer Satisfaction Index reports that customer satisfaction has dipped again, reaching near‑record lows. Companies love to blame “rising customer expectations,” but the data shows expectations haven’t changed much at all. Translation: it’s not us. It’s them.

Why Are We So Comfortable With Mediocrity?

We complain, oh, we complain. We leave the annoyed Google review. We send the “this wasn’t what I ordered” email. And what do we get?
A coupon.
A refund.
A “We’re so sorry, please give us another chance!”
Cute. But does anything actually change? Do they improve the product? Do they train their staff? Do they stop cutting corners?
No. No, because they don’t have to.
For every one of us who speaks up, three more stay silent and just pay the bill. Corporations know this. They bank on it, literally!

We’re Funding the Very System We Complain About

I’m tired of watching big corporations dictate what we buy, how much we spend, and what level of quality we’re “allowed” to expect. We deserve better than this cycle of low‑quality goods, high prices, and “customer service” that feels like a hostage negotiation.
And here’s the kicker: consumer spending is still strong, even though people feel worse about the economy and more frustrated with rising prices. Companies know we’ll keep buying, even when we’re unhappy. That’s why nothing changes.


So… What If We Actually Did Something About It?
What if we stopped playing along?
What if we all, yes, all, decided to stop buying from companies that treat us like walking wallets? What if we went on a coordinated consumer strike? What if we remembered that they are nothing without us?
Because that’s the truth.
Strip away our purchases, our subscriptions, our clicks, our loyalty, and what’s left?
A corporation with no customers.
A brand with no audience.
A billionaire with no revenue stream.
They need us far more than we need them.
We Deserve Better. And We Know It.
We deserve products that aren’t falling apart.
We deserve customer service that doesn’t feel like a chore.
We deserve prices that don’t require a small loan.
We deserve corporations that respect the people who keep them alive.
And the moment we decide to act collectively, really act, they’ll have no choice but to change.
So, the real question isn’t whether they’ll listen.
It’s whether we’re finally ready to stop whispering our frustration and start using the power we’ve had all along.
Who are they without us?
Exactly.

Phoenix’s Midnight Walks: Caring for Senior Dogs with Grace and Compassion

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Phoenix, my most recently adopted senior pitbull, has always carried herself with quiet strength. Once the queen of the couch and the guardian of the front door, she now spends her nights pacing, her paws tracing invisible circles in the dark. Her eyesight has dimmed to shadows, her hearing fades like whispers in the wind, and arthritis has made her hind legs stiff and sore.

Watching her navigate this stage of life is both heartbreaking and humbling. There are moments when I see her confusion, when she forgets where she is or what she was searching for. And yet, there’s resilience in her steps, a reminder that even in frailty, there is dignity.

I’ve walked this road before with Melita, my fur baby of 19 years, whose final days taught me the bittersweet truth of loving deeply: sometimes, love means letting go. Choosing the day to say goodbye was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. With Phoenix, I carry those lessons forward, balancing care, comfort, and compassion.

Caring for a senior dog like Phoenix means creating an environment that feels safe and familiar. Keeping furniture in consistent places and reducing clutter can help ease confusion when dementia causes disorientation. Establishing gentle routines—regular feeding, walks, and rest—provides comfort and predictability, while small adjustments like soft lighting or calming sounds at night can soothe anxiety during pacing spells. Finally, supporting mobility with ramps, orthopedic bedding, and non-slip rugs, alongside veterinary guidance for pain management, ensures your dog can move with dignity and as little discomfort as possible.

•           Create a safe, predictable environment

•           Maintain gentle routines with calming nighttime support

•           Use mobility aids and consult your vet for comfort

Advice for Owners: Caring for Yourself Too

The emotional toll of caring for a senior dog is real, and it’s important to honor your own well-being alongside theirs. Allow yourself to grieve the small changes as they come, recognizing that each shift in ability is a loss worth acknowledging. Seek out community, whether through friends, support groups, or fellow pet owners, because sharing stories lightens the burden and reminds you that you’re not alone. Most importantly, practice self-compassion: sleepless nights and tough decisions are part of the journey, and remembering that you’re doing your best helps you carry the weight with grace.

•           Allow yourself to grieve changes as they happen

•           Seek community and connection with others who understand

•           Practice self-compassion and remind yourself you’re doing your best

Phoenix’s midnight walks remind me that aging is not a loss of spirit, it’s a transformation. Our senior dogs teach us patience, resilience, and the depth of unconditional love. Caring for them in their twilight years is both a challenge and a gift, one that shapes us as much as it comforts them.

And yet, this journey is not only about them, it’s about us, too. It asks us to stretch our hearts wider, to sit with grief even as we celebrate joy, and to recognize that love is not diminished by endings. In fact, it is magnified. Every sleepless night, every gentle touch, every whispered reassurance becomes part of a legacy of devotion that will outlast their physical presence.

So if you find yourself walking alongside a senior dog, know that you are not alone. There is a community of caretakers who understand the bittersweet beauty of this path. Hold onto the small moments, the wag of a tail, the warmth of fur against your hand, the quiet companionship in the dark. These are the treasures that remain long after the pacing stops, long after the goodbyes are spoken.

Phoenix, like Melita before her, reminds me that love is not measured in years but in presence. And in the end, the greatest gift we can give our dogs, and ourselves, is to honor their journey with compassion, courage, and the knowledge that every step together matters.

Expertise Unheard: Navigating Partnership and Disillusionment

~ Natal Galvan

Choosing to live childfree was a conscious decision for me, one rooted in the desire to navigate life on my own terms. I simply didn’t desire the obligation of nurturing and shaping a young life. My preference was, and continues to be, experiencing life on my own terms. However, what I hadn’t anticipated was that inviting a partner into my life could sometimes echo the challenges of parenthood.

I’ve encountered numerous women with long-term partners or husbands who echo my feelings, indicating it’s a shared experience rather than an aversion to societal duties. It’s as if society has scripted our roles: men jest about choosing the “level of crazy” they can tolerate in women, while women wryly note that all men are akin to children, leaving us to ponder just how much additional “parenting” we’re prepared to extend.

A recent episode with my significant other left me questioning the very essence of our dynamic and if I actually had avoided parenting altogether.

The sting of unheeded counsel is all too familiar which is particularly trying when it comes from a place of professional expertise. With a wealth of knowledge spanning over two decades in my field, I was once the expert he revered, the beacon that guided his career choice. Yet, as time marches on, his ears seem attuned to everyone’s advice but mine.

This pattern reminds me of my own youthful dismissal of my mother’s wisdom, which I once deemed obsolete. Yet, invariably, her insights proved prescient, a lesson I learned through repeated stumbles. Children may outgrow this phase, but adults, like my partner, often remain obstinately resistant.

Witnessing him return home, drained from the day, only to rise embittered and anxious, is disheartening. My attempts to offer proven strategies—real-world solutions that have bolstered similar ventures—are met with indifference. It’s maddening, particularly when his business is still pliable, ripe for innovation.

These moments accumulate, a growing ledger of disillusionment, prompting me to wonder: what role do I truly play here? What is the value of expertise if it remains unheard within one’s own sanctuary? What actual purpose am I serving here?

It’s a quandary that challenges the very core of partnership and mutual growth.

Embracing the Winds of Change: Reflecting on Life’s Decisions

~ Natal Galvan

Life is a tapestry woven with decisions—some impulsive, others calculated, but each thread contributing to the intricate pattern of our existence. My journey has been marked by choices that some might label as erratic or spontaneous. Yet, these moments of decision, whether they led to triumphs or trials, have been the very essence of my learning.

In the quiet corners of our lives, we encounter those pivotal decisions that resonate deeply within us. We sense their rightness, even when the full impact of their wisdom is yet to be felt. It’s in the patient unfolding of time that the seeds of doubt can sprout, tempting us to question our course.

Recently, I found myself at a crossroads, faced with decisions of considerable weight. Guided by the compass of my heart, I sought authenticity and joy. Such significant life choices, however, come with their sacrifices. As the days pass, a sense of loss lingers; life as we knew it—and who we were within it—transforms.

Transition periods are rife with uncertainty, yet it is essential to anchor ourselves in the pursuit of happiness. Time, that gentle sculptor, eventually reveals a new pattern of existence, and the vision we held for ourselves begins to materialize.

Amidst this journey, I experienced a momentary ebb in my spirits. Partly, I could attribute it to the hormonal tempests that visit monthly, leaving emotional turbulence in their wake. But there was also the recognition that I was in a phase of gradual alignment, where life’s puzzle pieces were finding their place, albeit slowly.

How do I navigate these emotional troughs? Initially, I surrender to the distraction of reality TV, allowing my thoughts to drift untethered. By the third day, restlessness sets in, signaling the simmering of creative energy, hinting at an impending burst of inspiration. And when the fifth day dawns, I emerge renewed, ready to embrace the present moment—the ultimate sanctuary from the past’s echoes and the future’s whispers.

In moments of doubt, I’ve learned the importance of sitting with my emotions, for they are the keys to self-discovery. The challenge lies in moving beyond these feelings, not allowing doubt to ensnare us, but instead, using it as a catalyst to uncover the evolving facets of our identity.

I urge that when you find yourself in moments of doubt, allow yourself the time to feel your feelings because it does allow you to figure a lot of yourself out. The key is to move past those moments, not getting lost in the feelings of doubts and allowing yourself to rediscover new parts of yourself that have developed through these times. Give yourself the gift of the present moment and before you know it, those pieces that you were waiting to fall into place, are.

Linwood Country C&$*@

~ Natal Galvan

After a grueling work week, my best friend and I sought an outdoor haven to unwind on our cherished Friday afternoon. We she discovered a charming spot in a nearby town, boasting picturesque outdoor seating and the promise of live music that evening. The venue was a local country club, a place I had visited once before, two years ago, when their outdoor section was just blossoming. Apart from the captivating scenery, there wasn’t much happening then, so I hadn’t returned until now.

Fast forward two years, my best friend and I, eager for a change of scenery and a good catch-up, arrived at the club. Initially, it was serene, with only a handful of golfers dotting the landscape. The bartenders were in a state of calm preparation for the evening. However, as the sun began its descent, the place started filling up. We were probably the youngest patrons there, but we didn’t mind, as we usually prefer the company of an older crowd. It soon became apparent, though, that we had intruded on the territory of the bar’s regulars, who were none too pleased with two random strangers sitting at their bar.

The hostility was almost instantaneous: nudges, pushes, shoves. The first offender was the so-called “owner,” a term he liberally used. Unbeknownst to him, I was aware of his actual status as a silent partner, a term he seemed to misunderstand. His behavior was boorish, treating the bartenders and paying customers with condescension. The air was thick with entitlement, hanging over the crowd like L.A city smog.

As we dealt with the “owner,” I began to notice out of my peripheral a woman began buzzing around me like an irksome mosquito. Suddenly, she was right next to me, her sweaty arm uncomfortably rubbing up against mine, and she started bombarding me with questions, “Who are you? Where you girls from, locals? What are you doing here? Are you leaving soon?” When she realized I wasn’t giving her much attention, she resorted to insults (per what foolish people do when they aren’t getting what they want), loudly proclaiming that the men at the bar weren’t “my type.” I asked her to clarify, and she suggested that the men were too old for me and that I should look elsewhere. Her audacity was cringe-worthy. Not for me but for herself for this sad woman was someone’s something.

You could begin to feel the crowd’s energy began to shift, some siding with her, while a few sympathized with us. Those who felt bad tried to make amends by offering to buy us drinks, which we declined. The husband of the pesky mosquito came over to apologize and then also stated,

“Trust me, if I could divorce her without her taking half of everything, I would have done it a long time ago. She is horrible.”

Our intended relaxing day off had turned into a battle of wills. To add to the ordeal, our quesadilla order, placed an hour and a half earlier, had yet to arrive. The bartender, sensing our discomfort, assured us that our food would be out soon. When it finally arrived, we quickly finished, paid, and left, but not without a lingering feeling of defeat.

I wrote a review, expressing my disappointment with the “owner’s” behavior and the regulars’ unwelcoming attitude. Sure, while customers come with their own set of quirks, can’t say much to that, it’s definitely within bounds to nudge the “owner” about minding his manners around the staff and patrons. If I were the boss and caught a glimpse of an owner acting out, I’d be more than just a little shocked – I’d be ready to teach a masterclass in Business Etiquette 101!

In my review, I vowed we’d be back, not keen on allowing them to treat us as the outsiders. Yet, in the days that followed, I had my doubts. It was a bit of a bummer to imagine those laughing hyenas carrying on with their night as we trudged home, spirits low. For them, it was just a blip on the radar, probably the butt of jokes as their evening rolled on. For us? It was a gloomy cloud that hung around way longer than welcome.

It’s quite the paradox, isn’t it? There we were, a couple of peace-loving souls, just trying to unwind, and yet we found ourselves in a stress-inducing saga. It’s ironic how we all aimed to chill out, but some folks must’ve missed the memo. The instigators likely slept like babies, oblivious to the chaos in their wake.

To them, we were merely obstacles in their quest for an extra squeeze of lemon in their vodka water.