01/25/2026
January 24 will always glow a little brighter for me.
That date belongs to my mom, Luz (light in Spanish), and now, in one of those quiet God-winks, it belongs to my daughter Legacy too. One life passing its flame to the next. Same birthday. Same light, just shining forward.
My mom was born in San Sebastián, Puerto Rico. Grow up in a farm home, she used to tell me she didn’t even wear shoes until she was 7 or 8 years old. I believed her… mostly. If nothing else, the bottoms of her feet were tough enough to back up the story. (I say that lovingly.)
Life introduced itself early to Luz, and it didn’t come padded.
Luz was passionate, but not loud about it.
Quiet. Reserved. Intentional. She had the kind of presence that didn’t need to announce itself, you felt it. She was a bit of a perfectionist and had an eye for the finer things long before “designer” was a flex.
Handbags? She knew. Quality? She noticed. Even when money was tight, and it usually was, she carried herself like someone who expected more out of life, not in arrogance, but in belief.
She wanted to give my sister, little bro and me the world, even when her own pockets were nearly empty. And somehow, in a thousand small ways, she did (mostly not with money) you’ll see what I mean next.
I still remember the first time I went to her job. She was so excited to show me her desk in an office space. She said it with pride, like she had arrived. When I walked in, I realized she was right, it was an office space. Technically.
It was the size of a gymnasium, packed with rows and rows of desks. And hers? The very last row. The farthest seat from the front.
She sat there smiling anyway.
The next time I visited, she was a few rows closer. New desk. Same smile. She told me, “One day, I’ll make it all the way to the front row.” And she said it the way people say things when they’ve already decided the ending.
(The rest of the story in the first comment).