Journal

I used to get angry hearing my name, dreading the five letters tied to my identity. Not because it sounded wrong, but because it belonged to someone else before it belonged to me. I share the name Cesar with my father, and after he left, it stopped feeling like something I carried and started feeling like something assigned to me.

I would argue in quiet protest against the label placed on me—swallowing anger mid-sentence and softening my voice. Still, every time someone said those letters, they demanded my sight, my hearing, my attention, as if the name itself carried a claim, a declaration of who I was expected to be. That meaning did not stay abstract. It followed me home and lingered.

While my mom grieved, she began comparing me to my father, often in moments of frustration. She looked at me with eyes of resignation and said, "You are acting just like your father." The words settled heavily, and a wave of guilt moved through me, rooting me in place. Even when I felt certain I was right, I stood down, afraid that any resistance would confirm the resemblance I feared most.

I learned to regulate myself accordingly. I avoided anger because it belonged to him. I restrained confidence because it felt too close to arrogance, and arrogance felt inherited. But I couldn't erase my emotions without disappearing altogether. What began as caution became habit and, over time, I began distancing myself from the identity of Cesar altogether. What had once been an outgoing part of me became muted and guarded.

The comparison spread beyond my mother. My sister repeated it, then my cousins, until it felt as though my family saw him in me before they saw me. I was labeled before I could explain myself, judged before I had room to speak, and in living that way, I grew quieter and lost friendships built on parts of myself I no longer felt safe expressing.

That fear followed me into high school. Yet during my sophomore year, without realizing it, something in me loosened. One of my closest friends was struggling with suicidal thoughts, though he hid it well at the time. With him, I didn't calculate who I was supposed to be. I laughed without restraint. I spoke without filtering myself through fear. I didn't think about my name or my father or what my family might see in me. I was simply present.

Much later, he told me those moments had mattered—that our conversations had helped him feel less alone. Before we parted ways that day, he said, "Thanks for being you, Cesar." I braced myself out of habit, expecting the familiar weight. But it didn't come. For the first time, my name wasn't an accusation or a comparison. It was gratitude. It was recognition. I didn't suddenly feel healed or free, but something shifted. The name felt quieter. Lighter. Mine.

I'm still learning what it means to carry a name without carrying someone else's failures with it. For years, I believed that avoiding my father meant erasing myself. I understand now that shrinking was never strength; it was fear disguised as control. My name was never meant to anchor me to someone else's absence. It is something I define, not something I inherit. In doing so, I reclaim my identity, pushing myself outward.

Last year, I started hosting live card auctions where success depended on being engaging, spontaneous, and unapologetically myself. People would come for the product I was offering, but stayed for my entertainment. There was no longer a chance to restrain myself; going live meant no script, no hesitation—just myself in front of an audience. It was the first time my personality wasn't something to soften, but something to amplify.

I now take ownership of it slowly, deliberately. My name is Cesar David Galindo, and it belongs to the future I am choosing.

"Dame la tarjeta, necesito ir a comprar comida," my mother exclaimed, with a frustrated yet still controlled demeanor.

"No." My father stated it crudely, with no sensible meaning behind the "no," apart from simply not wanting to.

I continued eating my cereal—Cheerios, my favorite, with little strawberries and bananas chopped in. I looked to my right, and my older sister looked visibly uncomfortable. My seven-year-old self kept enjoying the crunch of the cereal mixed with the gooeyness of the fruit. My mind drifted in and out of thoughts about what school might have in store for me. My sister was still uncomfortable, this time shaking her right leg.

I turned around to see what the commotion was about. My father and mother were aggressively arguing about buying groceries. Suddenly, the room shifted from a quiet morning to a chaotic one. My brain, subconsciously drowning out the sound of the fighting, could not help but focus on it now, centered solely on my dad's rash and aggressive behavior. I began to daze off, my mind wandering elsewhere.

My dad, who owned a lucrative construction company, was the sole breadwinner of our home. The little I remember from years of forced and subconscious suppression is that he was muscular, light-complexioned, and tall. He always had someplace to be—never kind but never openly angry. Always sleepy when it came time to play, but full of energy when it came time to talk business.

Well, this is what my brain had morphed him into. His true self was never revealed to me because I was too young. He was still awesome and apparently cool. I did not fully realize his true composition of negative traits until I grew up. I was sheltered from this by my older sister, who already knew my dad's true colors.

My dad was a strict and unempathetic business owner. The copious memories my sister has of him paint a different picture. To her, he appears as an out-of-shape, short, and stubby man who always chooses not to be with his family. Never kind. Always angry. Always neglectful. Always looking for more money.

My mind snapped back into the moment. To this day, I don't know what happened during my daydream. But now my mom—with a broken nail, messy hair, and a crooked half-smile—was ushering us out the door to school.

She never got his card. She took money from her savings to buy groceries that day.

This memory has always had a place in my head, especially when the room gets quiet, and my mind wanders. Walking down those corridors of memory, the doors are not welcoming, but they are not shut either. They stay slightly open—just enough for me to remember what transpired and just enough for me to imagine the rest. I live my life through the lessons of this memory. Avoiding at all costs becoming the money-hungry, neglectful man my father was. Striving every day, every waking moment, to become half the woman my mother is and standing up for the weak, choosing kindness and forgiveness over anger and resentment. Because that is the man my mother single-handedly raised.

"¡Todos digan cheese!" Click. Snap. Done.

"¿Ya terminamos?" I asked, my voice heavy with boredom as I shifted in place.

"Just one more, uno más, mijo," my uncle replied, trying to coax a smile out of me.

"Ya, pueden ir. A jugar," my grandmother finally announced, ushering the kids toward the backyard. As we ran outside, my grandfather lingered behind, shaking his head with a quiet smile. "Un día van a extrañar estos momentos."

Every five years, my family gathers to celebrate my grandparents' wedding anniversary. No matter what has happened in the years between—distance, disagreements, or busy lives—everyone arrives within days of one another, filling the same house, eating the same meals, and falling back into familiar rhythms.

As a child, I was restless during these reunions. I talked over my elders, whispering to my cousins, counting down coffee time, and sneaking outside whenever I could. I treated the gathering like a pause in my real life, something to get through rather than participate in.

My grandparents' 60th anniversary marked a shift. My uncle John, the one who always stood behind the camera, was no longer there. He had been the quiet organizer of our gatherings, calling people into place and keeping moments moving. Without him behind the camera, that role went unclaimed. I realized someone would have to step in.

I picked up his old camera, surprised by how natural it felt in my hands, and asked my younger cousin Maxi to stand beside my grandparents. When he tried to run off, I stopped him and said, "Vas a recordar estos momentos cuando seas de mi edad." I stayed longer with my elders, pouring tinto and listening to stories I had once tuned out. Only then did I feel my place within the family shift, from observer to participant.

This tradition strengthens our family not through grand gestures, but through shared responsibility. In stepping into the role my uncle once held, I began to understand what my grandfather meant all those years ago. Each gathering ties past and present together, passing memory from one generation to the next. Though we won't always be together physically, these moments ensure we return to one another, carrying forward the responsibility that first brought us together.

I was eight years old when my father left my family. Growing up without a father figure was difficult, especially as a young boy trying to understand values like hard work, respect, and how to carry yourself as a man. Many of the small lessons that fathers usually pass down—things like chivalry, discipline, and kindness—were suddenly missing. Around that same time, I found someone who unexpectedly filled that gap in my life: Cristiano Ronaldo.

Since I was little, soccer has been a huge part of my life. I played in academies, on school teams, and recreationally with friends. I studied the game constantly—learning about the biggest teams and the greatest players. Out of everyone I watched, Cristiano Ronaldo stood out the most. At first it was because of his incredible skill, but what kept me following him was his mindset. His relentless work ethic, confidence, and refusal to give up showed me what dedication really looks like.

Ronaldo's story of growing up with very little and working relentlessly to become one of the greatest athletes in the world inspired me in ways I didn't fully realize at the time. He showed me that your circumstances do not define your future. What matters is how hard you are willing to work and how determined you are to keep pushing forward. In many ways, he became the role model I needed during a time when I felt like something important was missing in my life.

I even copied him in small ways. Throughout elementary school I tried to match his hairstyles, practiced his moves on the field, and defended him in every argument about who the greatest player was. My friends used to joke that I talked about him so much that he might as well be my dad. To be honest, that joke never bothered me. In a way, Cristiano Ronaldo became the father figure I felt I lacked growing up.

If I ever had the opportunity to meet him, I would ask him three questions. First, I would ask who inspired him to become the person he is today. Everyone draws strength from somewhere, and I would want to understand what motivated him during difficult moments. Second, I would ask about the hardest moment of his life—the time when he felt closest to quitting. Heroes are often seen as larger than life, but understanding their struggles makes their achievements even more meaningful. Finally, I would ask if he realizes the impact he has had on people around the world. I would like to tell him that his determination and character helped shape who I am today.

Meeting Cristiano Ronaldo would not just be about meeting a famous athlete. It would be the chance to thank someone who unknowingly helped guide me through one of the most difficult parts of my childhood. His mindset of discipline, resilience, and self-belief helped shape the person I am today and continues to influence how I approach challenges in my own life.