embracing impermanence: a journey from ancestral wounds to personal transformation

All reflections have a beginning, yet I am unsure where to start. How far back in time should I go for you to understand my current experience? I don’t know. It could be a hundred years ago, as far back as I have recollected my family’s history and stories. I could start nine years ago when a seemingly simple phrase I read in a book touched me so deeply that I tattooed it to ensure I’d never forget it. Or perhaps I could start one month ago, when I left what I had called home for nine years, a life that changed me deeply and unexpectedly.

You can choose—this is an interactive blog. I will start chronologically, but you can skip to what you find most interesting or meaningful.

For me, it started with what I call the ancestral wound of abandonment. It began with my grandma, my mother’s mother, who had a terribly difficult life from birth. With no father figure, she was obliged to "marry" an older man when she was only 13 and began having children right away. She endured violence and hardship to feed and care for her children. Her "husband" was an alcoholic, and violence was his only way to cope with his suffering.

My mom is the youngest of all the siblings. In her early years, she was immersed in a family full of fear and violence. When she was a teenager, her father died in an accident. She says this was a relief for her, but the unprocessed grief has passed down to all my siblings and me. I think I can’t fully imagine all the pain from my ancestors that ripples into my own daily life. I am not telling the full story—I don’t even know it myself—but I felt all the pain right from the beginning, though I didn’t recognize it as such.

I am the youngest of five. My mother married my father when she was very young, and all my siblings are a year apart, except for me. I was the accident after fifteen years. I have felt the fear of abandonment since I can remember: I was a very shy kid, never leaving my mother’s side, fearful of every new interaction (I’m still fearful of that), with recurring nightmares where my mom leaves me in a crowd, never looking back as I desperately call out to her. As far as I know, I never experienced abandonment in my childhood; family stories suggest I was the most spoiled kid on earth. I received so much attention and care that I really can’t pinpoint any event that would make me feel abandoned.

Fast-forward to university years, when I met Jorge. The attraction went beyond the physical plane. Now we both joke—and acknowledge—that our traumas were attracted to each other. Perhaps they saw in one another a chance to heal… who knows! Our habits, reactions, and patterns sometimes brought us difficulties and other times great joy. But after five years together, I felt for the first time that my heart would collapse; co-dependency hit hard. Jorge decided he wanted to leave Mexico and go to Europe to pursue a career. I felt an overwhelming fear, a fear like death itself—I literally thought I would die if he left. But as always, crises are the best way to reconnect with what we often neglect: the call to heal our soul.

During those days, I spent my free time between therapy, books, and conversations with trusted friends. That’s when I read the phrase “permanent impermanence,” which somehow brought me great relief. It couldn’t have been more accurate: we experience it all the time, throughout our lives—nothing stays; everything is in constant flux, coming and going. After this, I had my first encounter with Buddhism. I attended weekly talks and meditations with a Tibetan monk. I felt a seed being watered, a small light illuminating the path to understanding myself and, in turn, the world.

Fast-forward once again. After several life crises, a determination to stay on the path, disillusionment with the practice, and fear of taking a leap into the unknown, Jorge and I decided to leave our normal life and embrace uncertainty: we left our comfortable life in the Netherlands and moved back to Mexico with no plans and lots of baggage (both material and emotional).

We decided to volunteer at Karuna for two and a half weeks and stayed for the retreat before going to Mexico. It was the best decision—we had the space and time to calm our minds and reconnect with the joy of simple things: beautiful nature, nurturing food for body and soul, and silence.

Silence is a precious gift we rarely enjoy. Thich Nhat Hanh explains this in many ways, but one that resonates with me is his idea that we seldom notice the joy and calm that come from the absence of pain or from a difficult or uplifting emotion. Silence brings me this sense—the capacity to simply sit and contemplate. It feels open and spacious to simply be. This retreat was the most enjoyable and calm experience I’ve had so far. I connected with a deep trust within me. I cannot explain it well in words, but it’s like a deep-seated faith, one that doesn’t need to be felt consciously. It is just there; we know it and don’t know it at the same time. It’s the trust that everything is going to be okay, with no need to pursue, chase, grasp, or embrace.

After this retreat, it has been easier to return to life, even though it’s full of unknowns. It feels as if whatever comes, it will be alright. I am trusting the process, taking one step at a time. I’ll see what life brings for me and Jorge; hopefully, something beautiful will bloom after all.