Held

Hey, it's Sunday Morning,

My grandmother was born without a birth certificate and died ageless.

We celebrated her birthdays without ever knowing her vintage year. Which was, in its own way, weirdly beautiful, like her hands.

She had small and chunky, yet graceful, hands. Her thumbs were flat at the tip, almost squared off, like someone had pressed down the clay before it dried.

I used to trace them with my fingers during my visits, fascinated by their strength and their stillness.

She used those hands to pick coffee beans for decades, with a wooden box on her back. Clip, clip with her thumb. Slow and steady. Her story, calloused into her skin.

One afternoon, she held my hand and said,

“Ay, mi’jo… tienes las manos tan suaves... qué bueno que no tienes que trabajar tanto.”
“Your hands are so soft, my son… I’m so glad you don’t have to work so hard.”

I said, “Not as hard as you, Abuela.” But I didn’t have the words yet for everything I meant.

I do now.

I carry you. I carry your labor in my choices. Your tired hands gave me mine, hands that write, build, and coach. Hands that hold.

Soft, yes. But not empty. Filled instead with centuries of labor I didn’t have to repeat.

We all carry things: family patterns, cultural weight, and expectations. Some are handed down with love. Others are handed down without choice.

So, if you’re gonna carry something this week, make sure it’s worth the weight. And if your hands are free? Use them. To create or to rest. To slap away the nonsense that always tries to find its way back in.

Here’s a small invitation. What are you holding onto—out of loyalty, fear, or habit? How would your hands feel if you let that go?

A show of hands.