I never thought of myself as a strong person. For a long time, I carried that belief quietly, unaware of the resilience growing inside me. Looking back now at the lemons life handed me so early on, I can finally see the strength that was always there. Finding it was not easy. For years, those experiences felt like extra weight on my back, pressing down on my heart and spirit. Eventually, I made a conscious decision: I could either let those burdens break me, or I could grow through them. I chose growth. I like to think I’ve turned those lemons into the best lemonade I could. This is my story of raising lemonade.
I was an only child, raised by a single mother. We were incredibly close when I was young. I remember cuddling with her, telling her how much I loved her, feeling safe and connected. When I was about three, she separated from my father, and after that I rarely saw him or his side of the family. She made the choice to keep me from them and didn’t attempt to foster relationships, memories, or bonds with them.
When I was nine, she remarried a man I now consider my dad. Shortly after, her health began to decline. After some time, she was diagnosed with fibromyalgia and a sleeping disorder. She stayed awake through the night and slept most of the day. Searching for relief, she decided that spending winters in Mexico—specifically Puerto Vallarta—was the answer. I went with her the first time during fifth grade, attending school there for a few months before returning in time to graduate with my elementary school friends. Before the next school year began, she decided I would go back with her again. I begged her to let me stay in Los Angeles with my dad. I was about to start junior high and desperately wanted a normal middle school experience in the U.S. She agreed, but only for one year.
That year with my dad was exactly what I needed. He showed up for me in every way a father should. He took care of me when I had chicken pox. He was there when I got my period—something that says a lot about the kind of man he was. He treated me with respect, understanding that I was growing into a young woman. We built a friendship that I was slowly losing with my mother. She had grown distant and unaffectionate, often irritated with me. Her focus had shifted entirely to Mexico and her desire to take me back with her. I didn’t realize then how much my life was changing, or how little control I had over it.
After that year, my mom returned from Mexico to take me back. I was painfully naive. My dad was moving out of our townhome into a one-bedroom apartment—without us. My mom was buying condoms at Costco, claiming she planned to resell them. Just days after I turned twelve, we arrived in Puerto Vallarta. A family was living in her house, supposedly to help care for it. The first night, I noticed one of their grown sons coming out of my mother’s bedroom. When I asked about it, she brushed it off, saying he was just looking for something. I didn’t question it.
That night, she took me downtown. On the bus ride home, she casually told me she was leaving the next day for Los Angeles to handle some business. The family would take care of me while she was gone, and the man I had seen leaving her room would be driving with her. Again, I thought nothing of it. The time with the family was uncomfortable. They tried to be welcoming, but home is more than a place—it’s belonging. I had no friends, no family, no sense of safety there. One day, they took me to the river with their extended family.
While wading in the water, one of the cousins struck up a conversation with me. She laughed as she asked if I really didn’t know that the man who went with my mom—her cousin—was actually my mom’s boyfriend. She asked if I really didn’t know my mom had gone back to Los Angeles to ask my dad for a divorce. She smiled as if it were amusing that I didn’t know. Everyone else did. I felt anger, confusion, and betrayal crash over me all at once.
When my mom returned, I searched her suitcases, desperate for answers. I found the condoms. I found naked photos of the man. All I wanted was to go home, to feel normal again with my dad. When I confronted her, she showed no compassion. If anything, she seemed relieved that her secret was out. From that moment on, she no longer hid her lust for a man seventeen years younger than her—still a minor. She was openly affectionate with him, constantly.
I called my aunts and uncles, begging them to make her take me back to the States. They said there was nothing they could do. She was my mother, and I had to deal with it. With my heart shattered and my life uprooted, I became rebellious. My mom was too consumed with her new boyfriend to pay much attention to me unless it suited her. I stopped caring how she felt and began searching for love and validation elsewhere. I had too much freedom and misused it. I made choices I’m ashamed of today. By the grace of God, I never got involved with drugs or smoking, and I didn’t end up trapped in something I couldn’t escape.
At home, my mother and I fought constantly. She wanted control, and I refused to submit. She hurt me in ways I still struggle to understand. One night, her boyfriend came home drunk and became abusive toward her. When I confronted him, my mom and I tried to lock him out with a chain on the metal door. He pushed back with a broom, striking my eyebrow and splitting it open. Blood poured down my face as my mom yelled at him in panic. She took me to the hospital, and I still carry the scar to this day.
I believed that incident would open her eyes—that she would leave him and things would go back to how they were. I was wrong. The next morning, as I left for school, I saw her sitting on his lap, spoon-feeding him. It felt like salt poured directly into my wound. She had chosen him over me. Our relationship never recovered.
She was physically abusive on more than one occasion. Once, she whipped me with an ironing cord for refusing to go to the river with them, leaving burn marks on my arms and legs. I went to school with visible scars, and even classmates noticed. From ages twelve to seventeen, she moved me back and forth between Puerto Vallarta and Los Angeles. Sometimes I stayed with my aunt or grandmother after begging to remain in the States, but it never lasted. I behaved when I was here. I stayed out of trouble, earned straight As, and loved school—even if she never noticed. It was for me.
She tortured me with threats of taking me back to Mexico, often disrupting my education months before or after the school year ended. I didn’t complete a full school year in one place until my junior year of high school.
My mother craved control—total control. She used me when it benefited her: for housing, child support, even helping her return stolen merchandise after switching tags. She became an addictive shopper, a hoarder, a master manipulator, and a narcissist. Looking back, maybe she always was. When I turned eighteen, I left. I refused to be her rag doll any longer.
God placed the best man in my life, someone who loved me and wanted to build a future with me. When I became pregnant, I prayed I wouldn’t have a daughter. I was terrified of repeating the cycle. I had my son, Joaquin, and I believe God knew I wasn’t ready for a girl yet. I reconnected with my father’s side of the family, and my heart broke hearing how much time we lost. My grandfather had passed away from cancer when I was eleven. All I have are pictures. I was told that on his deathbed, he asked to see me again—and my mother refused.
After my second child, Benjamin, was born, my mother suffered a severe mental breakdown in Mexico. She experienced hallucinations, visions, and paranoia, believing she spoke directly with God. My family rushed to bring her back to the States. She believed the plane was over capacity, that her drink was poisoned, and even tried to jump from a moving car. She checked herself into the hospital, faked a heart attack, and insisted the doctors were conspiring against her.
When she tried to flee, I told the doctors everything. She was placed on a 51/50 hold. Watching her restrained and hospitalized nearly broke me. My family blamed me, enabling her release before a diagnosis. When she worsened, they finally saw the truth—but she refused help, believing we were working with the devil.
I eventually had to stop letting her into my home to protect my children. She showed up unannounced, slept under my husband’s van, left trash and unsettling “gifts,” and caused constant anxiety. I lived in fear but refused to give in.
After years of prayer, I made peace with my limits. We moved, and she no longer knows where I live. My home is peaceful again.
When Benjamin was five, I felt ready for a daughter. I prayed again—this time asking for one. God answered with Mia. She is perfect. She healed parts of me I didn’t know were broken. She reminds me every day that I am not my mother.
Yes, I grieve that my children don’t have grandparents the way others do. But they have something better: a home filled with love, safety, and respect.
I’ve learned I don’t have to become the person who raised me. If anything, she showed me exactly who I don’t want to be. When life hands you lemons, you have a choice. You can drink the bitterness—or you can add sugar and make lemonade. I choose lemonade.
