On NYE 2024, I was with my husband, my daughters, and all our DC friends, our family here, celebrating the New Year. We were eating 12 grapes for 12 wishes, running around the block with a suitcase to make sure we would travel that year, and dancing while celebrating life. We had just come back a couple of days earlier from Colombia, where we spent Christmas with my mom, my siblings, and our big, loving family. We felt certain 2024 would be a great year.
I come from a big family: three brothers, three sisters, and my mom, who was the core of the family, the glue that kept us together after my dad passed away when I was 10. We are all close, but the sisters have always shared an especially strong bond. We called ourselves “the four musketeers,” always surrounding my mom and making sure everything was okay. Strong women, loving women, wonderful women.
Three years earlier, one of my sisters, Mechas, was diagnosed with breast cancer. It shook us deeply. In my family, there was no history of cancer, and we had never truly felt vulnerable to such a terrible disease. She went through treatment and came out victorious, embracing life with a new energy, taking risks, trying new things, even wearing red nails and lipstick when she never used to. She was full of life.
The NYE celebration was wonderful, and life resumed on January 2nd, things felt normal. Then I received a call I will never forget. On January 4th, my mom had a heart attack. I traveled to Bogotá and stayed there for two weeks while she was in the hospital. On January 15th, my mom passed away. I am grateful I was able to be with her and say goodbye, but was devastated. Grief took over.
We tried our best to honor my mom with joy, because we knew that’s what she would have wanted for us. But more bad news was on the way. In August, my sister Mechas told us the cancer had come back. We were hopeful. She had won the battle once; she could do it again. But this time, that wasn’t the case. In December, my sister lost her battle with cancer and passed away.
The beginning of 2025 felt strange. Mortality was suddenly so real, and I wanted to shake that feeling with something positive. My body was carrying the weight of grief, and I found myself visiting a different doctor almost every week. Something needed to change.
One day, I came up with the idea of riding a bike race. I started researching online, and somehow I landed on the BellRinger page. I couldn’t believe it, a perfect ride for me existed: non-competitive, in DC, and rooted in the fight against cancer. I registered, and from that moment on, I felt my mom and my sister beside me, encouraging me. The ride became personal, a way to honor my sister, to strengthen my body, and to begin healing my soul. I believe in science, in research, and in hope.
I did it, not without challenges. A month before the ride, I injured my back. One month! I was immobilized for four days and then spent nearly three weeks recovering. At that point, I didn’t know if I would be able to do it. But the strength was still there. I showed up, I rode, and I felt amazing.
My mom and my sister Mechas were in my heart and in my mind, pushing me forward. I wanted to show them that they are still alive in me, inspiring me to do big things and cheering me on.
During the ride, I laughed, I sang, and I cried more than once. And I want to do it again. I want to keep feeling that I am part of this fight, and that one day, science will help us win the battle against cancer for good.
So here I am again, ready to ride for you, mi mosquetera.
