Let me tell you a story about something I learned about myself.

This won’t be a confession of weakness, nor a tale of courage or inner strength. Those are just labels. And the truth is, labels are strangers to far more people like me than most realize.

If anything, this story is about struggle. Maybe about will. Perhaps even discovery. Or maybe it’s just me throwing words into the wind, hoping they land somewhere that makes sense.

Without turning this into a rant about mental health, or about how the pressures of the modern world are quietly grinding people down, I’m going to focus on my journey over the past few years.

Today is March 10, 2026.

I write that only to establish the context of time. Because time matters.

Recently, I realized something that had been hiding in plain sight: I’ve been in a dark place for quite a while now. Life has been hard since 2020. We all know what happened in the world that year, so there’s no need to revisit it here. But for us, the hardships didn’t stop there.

My wife lost both her mother and her sister within two months of each other. Not long after, a medical disability took away much of her independence. That changed how we lived. 

Permanently.

By 2022 the world had changed. People had changed. I had changed.

Then, two years ago, somewhere between spring and summer, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. And it was a brutal bitch. I watched my mother struggle in ways I had never seen before. I witnessed her fight through pain and hopelessness. I saw the quiet cracks in her unshakeable faith as the weight of the battle grew heavier.

And somewhere in all of that, something inside me broke. Only I didn’t know it at the time.

Her battle was brief, but it was courageous. Her faith carried her through. My siblings bore the weight of her care with strength I will always admire.

I carried something else.

Guilt.

The guilt of not doing more, even though I had my own battles to fight.

She left us on August 31, 2024. She lost her fight with cancer just two weeks after her seventy-sixth birthday. We were devastated.

My siblings were with her when she passed. I was on the road to the hospital. I arrived just after. I learned later that I had missed her final moments.

I drove my father home that night. It was a two-hour drive from San Diego. Somewhere along the way I saw something I had never seen before in my life. My father fell apart, and then fell asleep.

When he woke, we talked. We laughed. We shared stories about her. But the emptiness in that car was palpable.

I was angry.

I was hurt.

I was scared.

But I showed none of it to the world. I was strong because my family needed me to be. My father needed it. I knew losing someone was hard. I had seen friends and family go through it before. But I never knew how deep it went.

This was uncharted territory for me.

The first test came about a week after her passing.

My mariachi group had a public concert scheduled, and I was determined to be there. My mother would have wanted me to play. She loved coming to our performances. She never missed a show.

Playing that night felt like a way to honor her.

It was the first week of September. Peak summer heat. A Saturday evening. Hot. Humid. No wind. An outdoor oven.

But just as we finished setting up, a breeze began to move through the air and take the edge off the heat.

My heart felt heavy as we began the show. My eyes were watery. Before we started, I had quietly marked a spot in front of the kiosk where my parents would usually sit. That night, the space was empty.

The emotions cut deep, but somehow they carried me through the performance.

The show ended. Pleasantries were exchanged. Photos were taken. By every outward measure, it had been a success. But inside, something felt hollow.

The night was still hot, and we were all sweating. But I was dripping. My suit was soaked.

A faint ringing started in my ears. I figured it was just the heat. I needed water. I needed to cool off. Two of the ladies in the group, Maritza and Erica, noticed something wasn’t right. They told me to go sit in my truck and cool down. The guys would finish packing up the equipment.

I sat in the truck and turned the AC on full blast.

Maritza and Erica both checked on me while the others finished the teardown. I could see concern on their faces, but I couldn’t quite hear what they were saying. I think I told them, “I just need to cool off.” One of them handed me a cold soda.

The ringing in my ears grew louder. My vision narrowed.

And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

I ripped off my saco, chugged the soda, and unbuttoned my shirt. I closed my eyes and let the cold air wash over me. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears, behind my eyes.

After a while, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes. Erica was standing there. She asked if I was okay. If I was sure I could drive home.

I said yes.

I lied.

I didn’t know what was happening to me. But somewhere deep down, I knew it was more than just the heat. I thanked her for checking on me. I think I hugged her before we went our separate ways.

I started the drive home. Halfway there, I had to pull over. I still couldn’t catch my breath.

I called a friend and told him what was happening. He talked me through some breathing exercises until the panic slowly eased. When I felt steady enough, I continued driving.

I called my wife and told her what had happened. She stayed on the phone with me until I pulled into our driveway.

When I got home, I went straight to the bathroom and tore off my charro suit. It was completely soaked. I took a cold shower. When I looked at myself in the mirror afterward, I understood what had happened.

I had lost my composure after the show. I had just experienced a full-blown panic attack. Maritza and Erica knew it before I did. They were my angels that night.

Both of them texted later to make sure I made it home safely. I thanked them.

Then I drank an entire bottle of Gatorade in one long swig and went to bed. I slept hard. The next morning I woke up sore and exhausted.

Returning to work in the weeks that followed was difficult. I kept mostly to myself.

I started taking long walks along the fence line of the school campus. I would walk until I could compose myself again before returning to my work.

Only two people at work knew why I did that. To this day, only those two people know why those walks still happen from time to time.

The second test came right before Christmas.

I was sitting in a training session on campus. The topic that day was mental health—how it affects students, how it impacts learning.

Then it started again. That faint ringing in my ears. Suddenly I was very aware of my heartbeat. I stood up and said I needed to stretch. But within seconds I felt it coming. I couldn’t breathe.

Without saying anything else, I walked out of the room and headed straight for the fence line. My heart was racing. My thoughts were chaos—thousands of them colliding all at once. I felt completely out of control.

I made it a short distance before I doubled over and threw up, tears streaming down my face as I tried to catch my breath.

This time I knew exactly what it was. A panic attack.

Once I had composed myself enough, I walked to the farthest gate on campus, unlocked it, and stepped outside. I walked about a quarter mile to the 7-Eleven and bought a soda.

The walk helped me settle down. I took my time heading back.

When I returned to campus through the front gate, my counterpart met me almost immediately. She was worried. And she was a little upset. She had been texting me for the last forty minutes. I hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t looked at my phone once. I told her what had happened. She hugged me and asked if I needed to go home. I told her no.

I didn’t go back to training that day. I finished the rest of the afternoon working quietly from my office.

Time passed.

The panic attacks eventually faded, though the melancholy still visited from time to time. The walks along the fence line remained. Those walks became something more than a routine. They were a place to clear my mind. A place to reflect. A place to sit quietly with my own thoughts.

Then today happened. A song I had heard a thousand times suddenly stirred something deep inside me. A wave of sadness rolled over me. An emptiness.

I felt like crying. But I didn’t. So I went for a walk. And during that walk, something unexpected happened. A hummingbird—brightly colored and impossibly small—appeared. It hovered before me for a brief moment, a burst of color and life suspended in the still air.

And then it was gone. But the calm it left behind stayed with me.

***

Recently I’ve found a voice again through my writing. Earlier today I wrote about that moment with the hummingbird.  It felt therapeutic in a way I hadn’t expected. Later that evening, after dinner, I cut my hair. Just a small act of routine, something ordinary. When I stepped into the shower afterward, something shifted. A single tear finally fell, and the ache was there.

Over the past two years, it has been rare for me to cry. There were many days when melancholy took hold, but the tears never came. They came later.

Quietly.

Painfully.

Away from all eyes, including my own. In the quiet of the night, under cover of darkness, I would wake to find my pillow wet. But somehow my heart felt lighter. And maybe that’s what healing really looks like. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just small moments of release.

Like a hummingbird that appears for only a second… and leaves behind a little peace in its wake.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.