On May 20, 2026, I marked the first anniversary of one of my biggest personal and professional milestones: the publication of my book Bridging Sonic Borders: Popular Music in Dominican/Dominicanyork Literature. This past year has been a whirlwind. I have been beyond busy and have spent perhaps as much time in my home in Athens as I have traveling for work.

I write this message almost a month later, on a day when I am usually sad, withdrawn, and missing the idea of a father I barely had. Yet today, I find myself putting into words some of the good things that make me happy—things that would probably make my father proud (who knows?) if he were here, and that I am certain make the man who has taken on the role of paternity in my life very proud.

Last month, I was honored to be the keynote speaker for the Frances Aparicio Endowed Talk at Northwestern University, a moment in my career that I am still savoring and that constantly makes me pinch myself in disbelief. In May, I also received the Isis Duarte Book Award. Beyond receiving the award itself in the FIAP building in the 14th arrondissement of Paris on a scorching pre-summer evening that somehow felt reminiscent of my dear Caribbean, what remains imprinted on me is all the love in the room: the support, the tears, and the laughter. Two of my dear friends traveled great distances to witness that moment, to hold me, help me, and remind me that I am never alone. Other friends could not be there physically, but they were present through messages and phone calls, checking in on me and reminding me of my light and strength.

Paris was the second stop of a journey—the first being Chicago-Evanston—during which my transformation began to materialize, and the caterpillar slowly started its journey toward becoming a butterfly. This transformative experience reached its climax in my dear Madrid, where I found myself alone and content. Every step I took was toward a better version of myself, a more confident self. Despite the physical wounds that the world could literally see as vulnerability, I was learning to see them as strength and power.

During the long hours between trains, buses, and planes, in worlds far from the few homes I insist on claiming, I began to come together. Pieces of me started finding one another and making sense. On a Sunday morning, I walked alone once again by El Pilar in Zaragoza, the hometown of my dear life partner, and all the hands that had been holding me through those previous weeks seemed to come together in what I can only describe as daydreaming through mañolandia.

A few hours later, I was on a train bound for Atocha, Madrid, beginning my journey back home. The rest of that afternoon and evening was nothing short of magical. Before I lay down to sleep, I watched the sunset and thanked life for all its blessings.

Today, as I write this message slowly, I am still healing. My wounds are still visible, but so are my strength, my resilience, and the light that shines through unimaginable darkness.

Forever grateful, and ready to keep embracing the light this solstice continues to bring.