Can we change?

The answer is: always.

Everything that happens to us in life is an opportunity for growth and transformation.

This is the story of a woman who was born and raised by the sea, on the shores of Naplo, a beach town south of Lima. The youngest of five siblings, she arrived during the last spring of my grandmother Enriqueta’s life.

She met my father at a New Year’s Eve party. That spark lit more than 48 years ago. She was 20, he was 23. They had big dreams—but the biggest one was to build a big, noisy family.

My mother held many roles, beyond being a mother. She worked as a travel agent, organizing trips—mostly for groups of women—around the world. In exchange, she received plane tickets so her three oldest children could come along.

In her spare time, she decorated homes and gave new life to second-hand finds. Always with her personal motto in mind: “What you’re looking for is an opportunity.”

She keeps several notebooks filled with everything: guest lists from every event she’s ever hosted, gift logs, expenses, school supplies, medications, travel purchases—even stories and moments she’s gathered throughout her life.

When we were kids, she photocopied book pages and bought T-shirts in bulk from Gamarra. She was never ashamed. She taught us that you can live with very little.

She has a heart for the most vulnerable. There was a priest who often visited our home; if he ever needed anything, she would give it to him. I didn’t find that part particularly fun as a child.

My father wasn’t the one to argue—she was the one who clashed with us. We were six little earthquakes, some more rebellious than others. Fights, yelling, crying… it was all part of the journey.

I held it against her for most of my life. Only recently—after a deeply painful event—did I begin to understand that raising six children almost entirely on her own was a battle. My dad worked long hours, and it would have been easier for her to just say yes to everything. But she didn’t.

Instead, she protected us however she could—crying, yelling, setting boundaries.

When she speaks, she jumps from one topic to another. And she writes the way she talks. Sometimes, I get lost in that maze.

We thought she wouldn’t survive losing Ingrid. But she has transcended. Now, she lives for her—and through her. She doesn’t sit still. She wants to keep discovering the world, this time with her grandchildren.

Wherever she goes, she’s a whirlwind of emotions, radiating warmth and charm. And if she didn’t care what others thought of her before, now she cares even less.

I admire her strength, her boundless love as a mother, and her courage to keep going after losing her favorite—Ingrid. She’s no longer the same. Grief has transformed her.

It took my sister’s departure for me to truly see who this woman—my mother—has always been… but whom I had never fully recognized.

Now, I love calling her just that: Mom.

There’s still so much to learn from her, so much to thank her for. And she still has so much to enjoy—everything she once had to set aside.

Sometimes pain forces us to see with new eyes. It pushes us to discover treasures that were always there—but we didn’t know how to see.

Love, strength, and true transformation often grow from our greatest losses.

Yes, we can change.

And in that change, we can also rediscover those who have always been there for us—like Mom.