The Years I Gave Away to Survival, Motherhood and the Voice I Still Have

Earlier this year I went to see one of my favorite writers, someone who I first met in 2004. Stephanie Elizondo Griest was promoting her new book, Art Above Everything. 

I went to hear her read at a Nuestra Palabra event. Ironically, I first met her at KFPT, when I was pregnant with my second child Seth, also with Nuestra Palabra. I met her in the lobby of the radio station, after speaking on the NP show and then later, I was one of the beginning writers who opened for her at MECA here in Houston. 

At MECA, Houston, 2004.

I've always admired Stephanie, and our paths have crossed often in the past 21 years. One time I was in New York having dinner with my cousin, and she invited me to go to a friend's reading. The friend was Stephanie, and my cousin Cindy didn't even know I knew her. Stephanie was promoting one of her books, it may have been Mexican Enough, because it was published in August 2008 and that was around the time I was traveling to New York a lot for work. 

Kids at Brazos Bookstore for Reading, 2018

In 2018 the kids and I went to see Stephanie read here in Houston at Brazos Bookstore promoting All the Agents and Saints. It was so cool to have my kids there, Miranda who was a baby and Seth in my womb, when I first met Stephanie.

Fast forward to this year, when I went to hear Stephanie from her latest book. So many of her words stuck with me—they’ve been echoing ever since.

In Art Above Everything, Stephanie Elizondo Griest names a truth I’ve long wrestled with: that choosing art over motherhood is a radical act of creation. She affirms that her writing is her lineage, her legacy, her offering to the world. And I feel that. I do.

But my story holds a different tension. I did choose motherhood.  I chose provision, protection, presence. I chose to be the altar, not just the artist. And in doing so, I’ve questioned—quietly, painfully—whether I truly love my art. If I did, wouldn’t I have fought harder for it? Wouldn’t I have carved out time, even in the chaos?

I’ve sacrificed my writing for survival, for service, for love. And now I ask: When will I write? Not just scribble in the margins, not just archive rituals in passing—but truly write. As if my pages are my children too.

Griest’s declaration—Art Above Everything—is a mantra I admire. But mine might be: Art Alongside Everything. Because I’m still here. Still capable of creation.

I have so many writing project planned and I don't want to be retired to start them. I have a novel now, one I've been writing since 2021, that deserves to be finished and launched into the world. I don't want to wait 20 years, like I did with Broken Cousins. I want to finish it and find a home for it, whether it's through the traditional channels or publishing it myself. 

I have three more projects after that one. I want to write something about my matrilineal line and our tie to Houston, a book about Texas vodkas, and another about the history of Mexican bakeries in Houston. 

I have plans. 

I know that realistically I can partially retire in 4.5 years, if I can find a part-time employer who pays health insurance, and as long as I make under a certain amount. If and when I do this, I can write full time. However, I don't want to wait until then. I want to write as much as I can now, while I know I'm still alive. While I know I still have a voice. 

I think of the times in my life that I had the time to write full time, but I worried about survival and didn't just write. The first time was when I quit working full-time for the Houston Chronicle at the age of 24. I was so young! I wish I could go back to that girl and tell her. I worried about my future, and we didn't have the technology (Internet) we have now. I thought I should go to graduate school and started studying for the GRE, instead of writing. I regret that now. Plus, I fell in love with Miranda and Seth's father. 

The second time I tried to take the time to write, was in 2013, a couple of years after my divorce, when I quit working to take care of Seth and my elderly dad, who decided to come live with me. I wanted to write as much as I could, but I found myself working contract, because I was worried that I wouldn't have the money to support my children. In retrospect, I should have just concentrated on my creative writing that year, just one year, and I would have loved to see what I could have accomplished. 

I can’t rewrite those years. I can name them. I can honor what they gave me—motherhood, memory, meaning—and now, I can finally ask for what I need. I don’t want to wait for permission. I want to write while I know I’m alive. While I still feel the urgency in my chest and the words pressing against my ribs. 

I will write. Not someday. Now.