Behold Your Mother.
At the beginning and the end of every life, there is one word we return to: Mother.
She does not know them all, but they know her. Hands upon her shoulders, guiding her forward, asking her to become what they already were: strong, fearless, brave.
A warrior without ever needing the title.
When she steps forward, a thousand feet move behind her. When she raises her head, she sees a future brighter than the one left to her.
Women of the tierra, of adobe and acequias, anointed by water, blessed by the sun. They give us life. They teach us prayer. They show us the light.
They shaped our world with wooden spoons and tired hands, with rosaries between their fingers, with quiet strength passed from hand to hand, shaping us for the fire.
My mother. My tias. My primas. Mi hija.
Their word was never questioned. Their strength was never announced. It simply was.
And everything I know of strength was placed in my hands by theirs.
Before you speak of where we come from, before you speak of what made us strong, behold your mother.
