Two Sides to My Story
My story has two sides: the side that people see and the side that I live with. The smiling boy on the outside, and the boy on the inside trying to make sure he doesn’t fall apart.
Some days I wake up and feel like I’m re-living the same day over and over again. I get out of bed, look at myself in the mirror, put on the same smile I’ve been wearing for the past couple years, and try to convince myself that maybe today will be different. But honestly speaking, most days just feel like a constant loop: the same routine, the same streets, the same noise echoing throughout the Bronx, the same responsibility to hold things together even when I’m barely capable of holding up myself. People might see me laughing, cracking jokes, acting like everything is all good, but in reality, they don’t truly realize how much weight life puts on your shoulders sometimes. They don’t see behind that smile.
A big portion of that weight all started when my grandmother passed away in November of 2022. She was one of the few people who you could be yourself around, making life feel still. Losing her didn’t just leave me with a hole in my heart. No, it changed everything. On July 30, 2025, I got her last name “Espada” tattooed on my back forearm as I refuse to let her memory fade. Even now, whenever I look at it, I remember the warmth in her voice, such as when she used to tell me “Don’t be in a rush to grow up, take things day by day, and move with a purpose,” which is something that sits in my head whenever I feel lost, along with the overall comfort she brought me whenever I was in her presence. Now, although I’ll forever represent my grandmother’s name without a doubt, my story isn’t only about her. It’s about everything I’ve had to carry daily since then: the pressure, the expectations, the dreams, the repetition of days which all feel the same.
My grandmother was born and raised in Puerto Rico, where life was hard and survival came before anything. She didn’t really have many options growing up, so learning early on how to stay strong even when things felt unsettled was key. She carried that same mindset with her everywhere she went; having to push through physical, mental, and emotional pain, staying disciplined, and never letting struggle “put a pin” in her moving forward throughout life. Unwittingly, she ended up passing that exact strength down to me. The way I maneuver around the Bronx, the way I stay alert, on top of things, and determined even when I feel fatigue — all of that comes from her. Growing up here may feel different, but the hardship is a familiar feeling. The lessons she had to learn on her own in Puerto Rico became the lessons I live by daily: keep your head down, stay out the way, keep focus, and don’t let your environment decide where you end up.
Growing up in the Bronx teaches you survival before you’re even taught how to live. When you live here, you’re forced to wear a “mask,” because in the Bronx, you aren’t allowed to show fear and dejection — you can’t let anyone trick you out of your spot, no matter how hard it is to manage. The sounds of sirens, yelling, and the rumbling of the 6 and 4 trains aren’t just background noise anymore, they’re normalcy. But, “normal” doesn’t mean it doesn’t weigh on you; it's beginning to feel like every day is just another reminder that tomorrow isn’t promised.
And that is the exact reason as to why I push myself so hard. That’s exactly why I have to keep going even when it feels like life may be repeating itself. It's on me to break the cycle that swallowed so many of those around me. I want to be something better. I want out, not because I hate the place where I come from, but because I envision bigger things for myself. I imagine a life full of opportunity, peace, an environment where I don’t have to pretend I am okay, a place where I don’t feel trapped by my zip code.
But trying to balance grief, school, and meet standards is exhausting. Teachers expect me to show up with the same drive every day, but they don’t know how much effort it takes just to get out of bed sometimes. Friends and family see me smiling and think I’m good, but they aren’t the ones with me on nights where I feel complete emptiness inside, they don’t know the pressure I put on myself, how lonely it is to carry pain barely anyone ever thinks to ask about — they miss the part of me that’s still hurting. It’s like I’m stuck between who I was, who I am, and who I want to become.
Still, even in the constant routine, I keep moving forward. I continue showing up. I remind myself of the reasoning behind why I am doing this. I do it for myself, for my future, and of course, for my grandmother. Success to me looks like being financially stable, graduating, attending trade school, becoming an electrician, and more; something that allows me to build a REAL LIFE for myself. There are times when I still hear her telling me to not give up. That tattoo on my skin isn’t just in her memory, it’s a reminder that she will be right next to me wherever I go. Some days I wonder what she’d say if she saw how far I’ve come. Every step I take toward my goals is carried with her pride, building the life she always wanted me to have. Because all in all, I’m the one still standing on my own two feet even when the world around me feels like it's crashing down. I am starting to learn that life isn’t always about the big moments, sometimes it’s about surviving the quiet ones.
My story has two sides: the side that people see and the side that I live with. The smiling boy on the outside, and the boy on the inside trying to make sure he doesn’t fall apart. And both sides deserve to be told; both sides make me the person I am today.
So yes, some days feel like a cycle, like a maze I can’t escape, but every day I get up anyway, yearning for something better. And I know that one day, all this repetition is going to pay off.
That’s the real story. That’s the real me.