Today, I'm graduating.
Six months ago, I stepped away from a ministry environment that had defined a large part of my life. At the time, it felt like stepping into the unknown, like being forced to choose between believing the words or the actions.
In these six months, a lot has happened. And I mean… a lot.
I passed the California written interpreter exam (I'm 50% of the way there!). I earned my medical interpreter certification. I interpreted my first USCIS interview. I've been working as an independent contractor at various immigration courts in NorCal (SF, Sac, Concord). I've begun what turned into an accelerated career pivot that I didn't even know was possible a year ago.
I knew I could interpret (and I have done it for years), but I never saw myself as an interpreter. I've also received vocational coaching that helped me see my calling with fresh clarity and gave me some categories to process the loss.
At home, something even more important happened. Our family found a new sense of unity and purpose. Vale and I are walking this season together with a peace that we had been missing for a long time.
And yet, strangely, these six months sometimes felt slow. Crazy slow.
Not because they were actually slow. Objectively, they were not. The progress has actually been quite significant. In fact, most people can't believe we have accomplished so much in so little time.
They felt slow because I was still running on prove-them-wrong energy.
Pedal to the metal. Show them they were wrong. Prove that leaving wasn't a mistake.
Confirm that I wasn't being punished by God, but rather rescued.
But somewhere along the way, I heard something that reframed everything:
Healing can be measured in energy.
"How much energy do you still spend dealing with your past?" was the "final exam" question.
For a while, a lot of my energy was still there. Not in bitterness, but in momentum—the kind of momentum that comes from surviving something difficult and re-evaluating your operating assumptions.
But healing has a quiet way of shifting your energy somewhere else. I attribute it to the Holy Spirit, but it's OK to be a bit more skeptical and word it in terms of time, energy, and distance if that helps.
Distance has been a part of it, for sure. These days, I drive an hour to church. I drive an hour to work. And strangely enough, it feels liberating.
The logistics are harder, the distance is greater, but somehow the weight is lighter.
Distance increased, but freedom flourished.
That's when I realized something important: I have healed.
And healing has also given me a different kind of clarity. When you step outside a system that required so much emotional energy just to exist within it, you begin to understand how much healing that system itself still needs… Así es la vida.
Along the way, I've also come to terms with something else: the "rebel prophet" version of me that many of you saw during that season had a purpose. It was the voice of someone naming things that needed to be named for the sake of the Gospel. It was the cognitive dissonance between words and policies.
But that season is no longer the one I'm living in, and James sounds much fresher from a different angle.
So today, I'm graduating. Maybe not with a 4.5, but rather a 3.28 GPA.
And like any graduation, there are a few acknowledgments I want to make.
To the ones who said, "this is for your good," or who concluded that something must be wrong with me, that "I had changed," lost perspective, or was going through some kind of crisis:
I'm sorry, but no…
Today I'm graduating not because of you, but in spite of you. May God bless you abundantly. And may the book of James—and perhaps Ephesians, if you are up for the ride—speak to you in ways you may not yet have considered. Cheers.
To the ones who simply didn't know what to do or how to handle any of this:
I get you. Life is complicated.
Not every situation comes with clear instructions. Sometimes, the best people can do is step back and hope things resolve themselves. I hold no resentment toward you (and I apologize for shaming you to do better; I was hurting). I owe you a drink.
And to the ones who spoke up, reached out, and tried to help—even when it wasn't convenient, even when it was uncomfortable:
You made me feel like one of yours, and that meant more than you probably realized.
Sometime later this year, when I stand for my naturalization ceremony and finally become a citizen of this country that has become my home, you will be among the people I hope to invite.
Because belonging is not something institutions grant. Belonging is something people give each other, and it usually requires being willing to give up space so other voices can be heard and experience agency.
Looking ahead, there is still more work to do. Boy, have I got work to do!
The California certification is still on the horizon (the hardest 50%). I missed a spot for this testing window, but the direction remains clear. The freelance work I'm doing now—interpreting in legal, medical, and community settings—is not a temporary detour. It is part of a new season I am intentionally building to allow for a less monophonic environment and more epistemological freedom. The Apostle Paul modeled it through tent-making; today, we call it bi-vocational ministry.
And for the first time in a long time, I'm not asking anyone to understand it or validate it. Peace has a way of making explanations unnecessary. ¡Todo va a estar bien!
Six months ago, I walked away from something I had pursued for a decade.
Today, I'm walking into something that feels much closer to freedom and faith.
And for the first time in a long time, that feels like home.