WE are Parts . Peace & Justice

Six months.

Today marks six months since the incident that changed something in our family. Six months of living with the aftermath, of making space for grief, sadness, frustration, anger and disbelief. Six months of trying to find a place where all these emotions can coexist without one consuming the others, where the different parts of ourselves can sit together and learn to speak a language of their own.

As a family, we have been doing the work. Individually and collectively, we have been allowing the experience to unfold, giving each thought and emotion the time and space it needs to find its rightful place. Above everything, my focus has been my son's well-being, his safety, his healing, and the quiet, often invisible work of helping him feel whole again.

I have always shared with my clients the importance of recognizing what is within our control and releasing what is not. To do our part, and then allow life, karma, the universe, whatever name we give to that greater intelligence, to take care of the rest. It is a principle I believe in deeply. Yet life has a way of bringing us to the very places where our beliefs are tested, where the wisdom we offer others becomes a question we must answer within ourselves.

Because what happens when protecting our peace begins to feel like abandoning the pursuit of justice?

What happens when standing up for what is right carries the possibility of harming a child's future, compromising relationships, disrupting livelihoods, or exposing ourselves to hostility? What happens when the people and institutions we trust to uphold responsibility and protect the vulnerable become part of the wound itself?

I have found myself moving between two very human places. One wants to keep fighting, to insist on accountability, to teach my son that violence has consequences and that the dignity of another human being should never be negotiable. The other wants to step away, protect the peace we have worked so hard to recover, and return to the life that exists beyond this experience.

Neither place is without love. Neither comes without a cost.

What has been perhaps the most painful is witnessing how easily suffering can be compounded by the very systems that should help repair it. The institutional silence, the minimization of violence as something children simply do, the absence of the integrity and humility required to acknowledge harm. The experience of being revictimized while trying to protect my child. Even the threat that followed my attempt to safeguard our privacy and stand up for him.

And the sadness of seeing a parent's energy directed towards threatening another parent, rather than towards understanding what might lead a child to inflict such harm, and what support that child might need.

I keep returning to this question of the world we are creating together. What are we teaching our children when aggression is excused as rage, when accountability becomes an inconvenience, when protecting an institution's image seems easier than confronting the truth? What kind of humanity are we cultivating when vulnerability is met with defensiveness, and the courage to speak is answered with intimidation?

These are not questions about one school, one family, or one incident alone. They belong to a much larger reflection on the culture we are collectively shaping, on the quiet ways we normalize violence, and on the distance that can grow between the values we profess and the actions we are willing to take when those values are put to the test.

And yet, I am writing this from a deeply personal place.

Today is also the last day of the six-month period I understood to be available for pursuing a criminal complaint in relation to the incident and the school's alleged omission. I entrusted part of this process to people whose role was to guide us through it, believing that the time, care and attention it deserved would be given. Delays, a lack of the attention I had hoped for, and the passing of the summer have brought me to this day with a sense of uncertainty that is difficult to put into words.

I cannot know with certainty what might have been possible had things unfolded differently. I cannot undo the time that has passed. And I am left with the uncomfortable question of whether I could have done more.

This is where my vulnerability lives today.

Not in the fact that I have been hurt, or that I have felt anger. Not even in my uncertainty about the systems meant to serve justice. But in the possibility that, in trying to protect my peace, I may not have fought as much as another part of me believes I should have.

I want my son to know that we stand up for what is right. That we do not turn away from harm simply because confronting it is difficult. That our actions matter, that truth matters, that we are responsible for the world we help create. And I also want him to know that his well-being matters more than any battle, that his life cannot be reduced to what happened to him, and that he is allowed to move forward without carrying the weight of making things right.

He tells me that this belongs to the past now. I hear him, and I respect his wish to move on. Still, I sometimes see the sadness in his eyes, the anger that comes with witnessing someone escape the consequences we believe their actions should have brought. I cannot resolve that contradiction for him. I can only stay close, listen, and remind him that what happened does not define him, that his pain deserves to be acknowledged, and that the absence of visible consequences does not make an act any less serious.

I tell him that karma will do its work. I say this not because I can promise him a particular outcome, but because I need to believe that life has its own ways of bringing us into relationship with the consequences of our actions. That not everything is visible to us. That we are not required to become the instrument of every consequence in order for truth to matter.

This morning, after meditation, I found myself returning to Ho'oponopono. To the practice of reconciliation, of taking responsibility for what is ours to carry and releasing what is not. And I realized that perhaps the forgiveness I need most right now is forgiveness towards myself.

For the things I could not anticipate. For the support I believed would be there. For the decisions I made with the understanding, time and resources available to me. For the mother in me who was trying to protect her child while navigating a system that often felt impossible to trust. For the part of me that wanted to fight, and the part that eventually needed to stop.

I want to forgive myself for being human in a situation that demanded more than one person could reasonably hold.

I am not writing this because I have found all the answers. I am writing because I am learning that letting go is not always a serene or graceful act. Sometimes it is a decision made with a heavy heart, with unanswered questions, with anger that has not entirely dissolved and grief that still finds its way into the quietest moments.

Sometimes peace is not the reward we receive after justice has been served. Sometimes it is the ground we must choose to return to when justice remains uncertain.

I still believe in harmony, in love, in acceptance, in truth and in the courage of vulnerability. But I am learning that harmony does not mean that every conflict finds resolution, that love does not guarantee reciprocity, and that integrity does not ensure that others will act with integrity in return.

Perhaps the work is to remain faithful to these values without allowing their absence in others to take us away from ourselves.

Six months later, I am bringing my attention back to what I can hold, what I can nurture, what is still alive and beautiful in our family. I am choosing to honor the work we have done to heal, the tenderness that has survived, and the life that continues to ask for our presence.

I do not know whether I will ever feel entirely at peace with the choices made, the choices left to others, or the things that were never within my control. But I want to stop punishing myself for the parts of this story I could not make right.

I want my son to grow up knowing that justice matters, and that peace matters too. That we can stand for truth without surrendering our humanity, that we can acknowledge anger without allowing it to become our home, and that forgiveness is not an absolution of harm. It is a way of loosening the hold that harm has on our future.

Today, I am not celebrating an ending. I am acknowledging a limit. The limit of what I could carry, what I could influence, what I could ask of myself while trying to hold my family together.

And perhaps, for now, that is enough.

I have done what I could with the love, strength and understanding I had available to me. I am still learning. I am still grieving. I am still choosing love.

May the rest be met by the wisdom of life, by the consequences of our actions, and by the quiet work of time.

I release what I cannot change. I take responsibility for what is mine. And I give myself permission to return to peace.

And what a way to begin observing my second house, my values, where Scorpio lives in my natal chart. What a way to commune with Venus, the force that seeks harmony, love, relationship and the conditions that allow life to flow, and Mercury, the messenger between worlds, carrying our words, our truths, our stories from the inner landscape into the world we share.

As the Sun enters Scorpio, I find myself entering this season through the very substance of its teachings | grief, death, rebirth and transmutation. Scorpio asks us to look at what we carry beneath the surface, at the emotions that, left unattended, may become resentment, and at the moment when we still have the freedom to choose what we do with our pain. How do we meet the shadow before it takes root? How do we honor what has hurt us without allowing it to determine who we become? For me the alchemy Scorpio is teaching me today is to let grief deepen my compassion, to let anger clarify my values, to let truth find its rightful expression, and to allow love to become a force that liberates rather than binds me to what has passed.

As the light moves into Scorpio, I return to the mystery of transformation, remembering that not everything that dies is lost, and not everything we release is surrendered. Some things must simply return to the great movement of life, so that something within us can be born anew.

Gracias Micael por entender mis limitaciones y aceptar todas estas partes de mi SER. Te AMO mas allá de lo que mis pates en algún momento pueden expresar. 💜💙