The Day I Remembered Myself

By Jenniqua Lopez

There wasn’t a parade or a flash of light when I awakened. No crowd cheering me on, no sign from the sky. Just a quiet morning. I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my hair, when something inside me finally said, “Look again.”

And this time… I did.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I looked past the face I wore for the world. I looked into the eyes of a woman who had lived. Not just survived, not just endured—but lived. And in that reflection, I saw every version of myself stretching back through time like a living, breathing collage.

I saw the child.

The little girl who smiled even when things hurt.

Who held her breath in the dark, who tiptoed around the edges of everyone else’s moods just to stay safe.

Who was told to shrink, to be quiet, to behave—but who still dreamed wildly, secretly, defiantly.

Who whispered to the stars at night, believing somehow they were listening.

And I whispered back to her, “You were never too much. You were never too sensitive. You were never wrong for feeling everything.”

I saw the teenager.

The girl who just wanted to be seen, to be chosen, to belong.

Who learned too early how to hide her magic to make others comfortable.

Who gave away pieces of herself thinking it was the only way to be loved.

But she kept her fire burning under all the noise. Even when the world tried to dim it, she held onto a spark.

And I said to her, “You were worthy before anyone said so. You were love before anyone touched you.”

I saw the young woman.

Pregnant with purpose before she even knew what she carried.

Battling heartbreak while holding the hands of others.

Giving love she never received.

Carrying burdens that were never hers.

The one who danced in the kitchen with tears in her eyes.

The one who prayed in silence, not knowing if anyone heard.

The one who didn’t know she was already becoming whole.

And then I saw me, now—thirty-five years into this journey.

A woman who has walked through fire barefoot.

Who has lost, and mourned, and broken—and still gets up.

A woman who has given birth not only to children, but to new versions of herself.

A woman who has faced generational pain and said, “It ends with me.”

Because it has.

The cycles I watched growing up—the silence, the shame, the pretending, the surviving—I chose to interrupt them. Not just for me. But for my children. My future. My soul.

I started to remember that love wasn’t supposed to hurt. That love is not earned through suffering or silence. That I deserve to receive everything I so freely give. And I give so much. My heart is deep, wide, sacred. It is not broken—it is brave.

And as I remembered all this, something ancient awakened in me.

A knowing. A power.

Not new—but long buried beneath years of self-doubt and generational programming.

My soul spoke: “You are the living prayer of those who came before you.”

I felt my ancestors rise behind me like a great wind.

The Taíno blood running through me.

The African roots that survived ships and slavery and still sang songs to the stars.

The Spanish fire. The resilience. The divine feminine in all her forms.

They came through my hair, my hips, my voice.

They reminded me that I was not alone.

That I come from healers, warriors, midwives, mystics, dancers, mothers, rebels.

I was never lost. I just had to remember.

And my children… oh, my children. They were the ones who placed the mirror in front of me.

They didn’t come to simply be raised.

They came to raise me.

To remind me to be present.

To remind me of wonder.

To crack my heart wide open.

To bring me back to softness.

To mirror my wounds and force me to heal them with love.

They asked questions my inner child had never dared to voice.

They laughed without shame.

They loved me without performance.

And in their joy, I remembered mine.

Through them, I saw myself—not as a machine, or a caretaker, or a woman constantly “doing,”—but as a being. A soul. A light. A presence.

I remembered that I am not defined by trauma, but by transformation.

That every scar is proof I made it.

That I’ve always been magic, even when I forgot.

Yes, I’ve known heartbreak.

I’ve felt abandonment crack me open.

I’ve cried from the depths of my belly, mourning things I didn’t even have words for.

I’ve begged God to see me, to rescue me.

And now I realize—God was in me the whole time.

Whispering. Waiting. Watching me rise.

This awakening wasn’t loud.

It came slowly, like sunlight creeping in after a long storm.

It came in soft mornings.

In therapy sessions.

In journaling by moonlight.

In holding my children close after a hard day.

In unlearning. In forgiving. In choosing peace.

It came in the decision to stop chasing people who never knew how to love me.

In releasing guilt I carried from childhood.

In finally believing that I was allowed to receive.

I am no longer begging for a seat at anyone’s table.

I am building my own.

An altar. A sacred place.

For me. For my babies.

For the ancestors. For the woman I am becoming.

I am beauty.

Not the filtered, curated kind.

But the kind that radiates from wholeness.

From being who I truly am: divine, human, soft, strong, raw, real.

I am magic.

The kind that dances between worlds.

The kind that prays and protests.

The kind that sings and surrenders.

The kind that creates and destroys and creates again.

I am love.

Pure. Boundless. Healing. Unapologetic.

I am love that does not abandon itself.

Love that mothers itself now.

And today, as I stand in this knowing, I do not wish to go back and change anything.

Not because it didn’t hurt—oh, it did—but because every step, every ache, every lesson… brought me here.

To this moment.

To this mirror.

To this remembrance.

The day I finally looked at myself and said:

“You are her.

You are the one your bloodline prayed for.

You are the mother who changes everything.

You are the child who survived.

You are the soul who never gave up.

You are the love you’ve always searched for.”

And I believe it now.

I believe me.