Sandra’s Saga: Chapter 10 Pages of Becoming

“You have to believe in yourself when no one else does”. —— Serena Williams

I bought the journal on a whim.

It wasn’t fancy—just a soft leather cover with lined pages and a ribbon marker. But there was something about it that whispered, Write your story, Sandra. And so, one quiet morning after Dilma and I finished a slow walk through the park, I sat by the window with a cup of tea, opened to the first page, and wrote:

“I am not done yet.”

That was the beginning.

It wasn’t poetry, and it certainly wasn’t profound. But it was true. Writing in that journal became a ritual—five minutes in the morning, ten at night. At first, it was just a recap of my day. But slowly, the words dug deeper. I started asking questions:

• Why had I stopped doing the things I loved?

• What had I buried beneath all those years of caretaking and teaching and getting by?

• What did I really want from this next chapter?

And then, as if the pen had a mind of its own, out came the answer:

“I want to go. I want to see the world before my knees give out, before my eyesight fades, before I lose any more time.”

But first, there was reality—and reality looked like my sweet mother in her wheelchair, dozing softly in the next room. I loved her dearly, and caring for her had become part of my identity. She wasn’t just my mom. She was my purpose.

Still… lately, things had shifted.

It started small. One afternoon, I walked into the living room and found her standing at the kitchen counter, holding a dish towel and drying a cup. My jaw nearly hit the floor.

“Mom!” I cried. “What are you doing?”

She grinned. “Trying to be useful.”

At first, I thought it was a fluke. But it kept happening. She began transferring from bed to wheelchair with less assistance. She started brushing her own hair again, helping with laundry, even making suggestions about what to cook for dinner.

Her physical therapist had noticed it, too. “She’s getting stronger, Sandra. Her core is activating again. The chair was necessary, but it became a crutch. Now that her confidence is back—and that medication adjustment we made helped her balance—she’s coming alive.”

It turned out a few things had helped:

• Her diet had changed. I’d started preparing more plant-rich meals, less salt, fewer processed snacks. She liked my vegetable soups and especially Dilma’s lentil stew.

• Her PT sessions were more regular—a visiting therapist now came three times a week, and they added light resistance training.

• Most importantly? Music. I’d been dancing around the house more since our classes, and Mom began tapping her toes. Eventually, she wanted to move with me. Slowly but surely, she’d begun to reengage with her body—and the joy that came with it.

She wasn’t sprinting laps, but she was reclaiming her independence. And with that, a door cracked open in my mind.

Maybe—just maybe—I didn’t have to choose between being there for her and living my life. Maybe I could do both.

Back in my journal, I wrote:

“I see a path. It’s not perfect, and it won’t be easy. But I can still go. I just need to plan it well, one step at a time.”

That afternoon, I made a list titled:

“What Needs to Happen Before I Travel”

1. Organize a caregiving schedule with my brother (finally rope him in).

2. Talk to Mom’s doctor about extended support options.

3. Test a weekend trip with Dilma—somewhere nearby but beautiful.

4. Keep journaling—stay honest with myself.

5. Say yes to joy, again and again.

That list was the first time I believed it was possible.

I closed the journal, exhaled slowly, and looked at the map I’d hung on the wall. So many pins to place. So many stories still to write.

I am Sandra. I’m peeling back the layers, uncovering the woman I buried beneath duty and doubt. And page by page, I’m writing myself back to life.