“When the Heart No Longer Mends the Same Way”I am Vanina Vergara - C.V. Vergara to the english-speaking world born in Asunción- Paraguay. I have three children whom I love deeply, and this is my life. There are sorrows that never scream, yet they weigh —upon one’s shoulders, one’s breath, one’s weary soul.Today, I want to speak about that quiet ache:when everything around you seems unchanged,but you — inside — are no longer the same.Sometimes life stalls, suspended in a kind of stillness.A son who never calls.A father who grows old, clinging to what destroys him.And you — somewhere between love and sorrow —trying simply to breathe.Trying to understand why some things cannot be mended,no matter how wholly you offer your heart.I recently returned from Uruguay.I was there with Pablo and my in-laws —aged eighty-nine and eighty-seven.There is something profoundly tender — and deeply painful —about watching two fragile souls still caring for one another,their eyes soft with time,as though the clock had finally stopped mattering.They looked at me often,and in their gaze I felt something I had forgotten: rest.As if someone whispered without words,“You can let go now. You needn’t be strong all the time.”But then I returned.And with me came that quiet lonelinessthat has nothing to do with being alone.That hollow feeling no routine can fill.Because sometimes, you can be surrounded by peopleand still feel the air slicing through you.I still miss my mother.I miss her without idealising her —with all her shadows, with her full humanity.And in that contradictory love, I’ve learnt this:to remember is also to heal.Love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real.It only needs to remain.If you’re listening and feel that your heart no longer mends the same,that some days simply breathing is an act of courage —let me tell you this, from one silence to another:you are not alone.You are not weak for feeling deeply.There are many of us still piecing ourselves together,still breathing gently through the absences.A few days ago, I read something by Lucas Casanova,from his view of secular Buddhism, that struck me:we were taught that self-sufficiency was the goal —that needing meant you were broken,that missing someone meant you lacked self-love.But he asks: since when was humanity measured by isolation?And then I understood —to need is not a weakness.It is profoundly human.Lucas speaks of a silent epidemic: loneliness.He says that when the nervous system has been wounded by relationships,it learns to protect itself —to mistake silence for peace,distance for safety,and isolation for strength.And so we begin to hide:behind screens,behind words that don’t meet the eyes,behind digital ties that never quite embrace.Yet the soul hungers for real presence.For eye contact.For tenderness.From that Buddhist gaze, the path is not to harden —but to return to the world without surrendering to cynicism.It’s difficult, yes — but freeing.Because only when we dare to trust again, even just a little,do we begin to heal that ancient wound:the one that made us stop feeling we belonged.And if you don’t yet know how to reconnect — that’s all right.Many of us are learning too.Learning to say hello again.To talk without a screen.To belong without losing ourselves.Because we were made to connect.And even if the heart no longer mends the same way —it still beats.And while it beats, there is hope.Because life, with all its cracks,is still — somehow — beautiful.Thank you for listening.I hope my story helps you find words for your own.
I read letters sent tomailto:[email protected]

Hello… I’m Vanina , and I welcome you to Caring: Voices for Healing —a space where we give voice to the things we so often keep unspoken.Today, in this episode, I want to talk about something that touches us all,even when we prefer to deny it: mental health.Every year, on the 10th of October, the world observes World Mental Health Day.But beyond the date, what truly matters is understanding that caring for the mindis not a luxury, nor a passing trend, nor a sign of weakness.It is a necessity — a quiet act of respect towards oneself.---🪞 “Speaking about mental health was once a taboo”For a very long time, mental health was something people did not speak about.In many homes — perhaps in yours, perhaps in mine —we often heard things like “don’t cry,” “don’t make a fuss,” or “don’t tell anyone.”And so, we learnt to sweep our pain under the rug,to smile while something inside of us quietly broke.I went through that too.For years I believed that enduring was the same as being strong.Until I finally realised that true strength lies in asking for help,in speaking up, in no longer hiding what hurts.Breaking the silence is never easy.But once you do, something within begins to heal —as if the soul, after so long in survival mode,could finally breathe again.---💔 “To care is also to listen”We often think that to help someone in pain,we must find the perfect words.But no — sometimes, it’s enough simply to listen,to not interrupt, to not judge,to ask “How are you, really?”and to stay long enough to hear the answer.Caring for mental health does not always require grand gestures.It requires presence.And that begins with ourselves.Listening to our bodies when they are tired.Listening to our emotions when they screamdisguised as anger, anxiety, or sadness.Listening to our needs without feeling guilty for tending to them.Because you know what?Self-care is not selfishness.It is emotional survival.---🌱 “Mental health is not only for when something goes wrong”We must stop thinking that mental health is only tended to in moments of crisis.Just as we care for our diet, our exercise, and our rest,we must also care for what cannot be seen.That might mean many things:– Setting boundaries where once we stayed silent.– Seeking professional help without fear.– Walking away from relationships that make us unwell.– And above all, learning to trust ourselves again.It’s not about being happy all the time.It’s about finding peace, even when life isn’t perfect.---✨ “Breaking the silence, healing the soul”Breaking the silence is an act of love —for yourself, for those around you,and for those who will come after.We may not be able to change the past,but we can change the way we remember it.We can turn pain into experience,fear into understanding,and silence… into voice.If you are going through a difficult time,please, reach out for help.You are not alone.And if you know someone who is struggling,don’t tell them “be strong.”Tell them, “I’m here, with you.”Sometimes, that is all it takes to begin to heal.---Thank you for joining me in this episode of Caring: Voices for Healing.I’m Vanina Vergara,and I invite you to stay with me in the coming chapters,where we’ll speak about connection, resilience,and the gentle art of emotional self-care.Because caring for the mindis also caring for life itself.We’ll meet again soon…hopefully, a little more conscious,a little more human,and a little more at peace.📩 I read letters sent to → [email protected]

It is not an emotional spa, nor a hashtag, nor the stuff of cheap self-help.It is like learning a new language after years of being mute to myself.Sometimes it sounds clumsy, sometimes it falters… yet still, I try.I write this barefaced, with a trembling voice, yet one that is true.Learning, day by day, that self-love is built anew—even as guilt and shame still visit me,my back bent beneath the weight of burdens that were never mine.It does not always come easily.Not every day.Some mornings, I cannot bear to look into the mirror.And others, I embrace myself with my own gaze—if only for five fleeting seconds.I desire to feel alive.Not functional.Not merely useful.Alive.And yes, I desire to love without fear.To decide with my hand upon my heart, and not upon the agenda.And today, I see: desire has no age.No form.No permission.It simply is.It beats.It breathes with me—with that stubborn hope that refuses to surrender.Hope does not shout.Nor shake me.Nor rescue me in a blaze.It simply stays.Small, persistent.A faint light at the end of the tunnel.A quiet voice that says, “one more day.”There are days I cannot find it.And yet—I breathe.And that itself is a form of hope.I do not know if tomorrow will be brighter.I have no promises, no guarantees.But I go on doing the very things that only one who hopes would do:I keep writing.I keep tending to myself.I keep dreaming of a lighter life.I keep believing that, despite all, it is worth going on.I do not ask for great miracles.I am content with an honest embrace.With a silence shared.With not having to feign strength at all times.Hope, in me, is no grand epic.It is ordinary.It is obstinate.It is a way of resisting without violence.And so, though at times I feel broken…I do not surrender.For hope, quiet yet steadfast, rests in the pocket of my soul.I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]

What happened today was not merely a quarrel;it was like opening a box of memories that had never been properly shut.Today, I did not simply argue with my seventy-four-year-old father,widowed and bound still to alcohol;I also confronted the man of my entire childhood and adolescence,the one who carved deep scars into my being.“I am not that little girl. I am a woman, free and strong.”“This is not my fault. It does not belong to me.”“I protect myself. I care for myself. I step back.”And another thing:this strange grief is easier to cross when it is named,as I have done now.For naming it is recognisingthat you are already saying goodbye, even while he breathes.This is my mantra —or my attempt at one—: “I, Vani, am a daughter, not a saviour.My life does not sink with my father’s.”“A Mourning Without End”Today I wish to share something very personal.Something that hurts,yet may help others living through the same.My father is dependent on alcohol.He has been so all his life.My mother lived with this for fifty years…she was a profoundly unhappy woman.She always told me so.And he never truly loved her,for one who loves does not destroy.We grew up in a home of shouting,quarrels, infidelities, violence;we drank in the poison of a place where love was absent.Today my mother is gone.She died a few months ago.And I find myself alone before my father,who drinks each day, ever earlier, ever stronger.It is like watching someone die little by little.And this is a strange mourning.Not the mourning of real death,which, though painful, closes.It is a grief in life:I watch him fade each day,yet he is still here, still calls me,still shouts at me when drunk.And I… I do not know how to help him.And the truth is, I have understood:I cannot save him.My mother spent her entire life in that fight, and lost.I do not want to repeat her fate.So today I have learned to set boundaries:– To speak only when he is sober.– Not to argue when he drinks,for there is no one at the wheel.– To guard my peace,even if he does not understand.And I know I am not alone.Many sons, daughters, partners or siblingslive trapped in the same prison:trying to save the alcoholic.Let me tell you from my experience:it is not your task,not your mission,not your sentence.I too find myself thinking dark things,wishing one day it might all end at once.But I have understood that this does not mean I hate my father.It means I am exhausted;I want the pain to stop,I want to cease living in this endless mourning.So today I close this chapter with my own mantra, my shield:> “I, Vani, am a daughter, not a saviour.My life does not sink with my father’s.”If someone listening is living something similar,please hold on to this:you have the right to care for yourself,to keep your distance,to refuse the sentence of those who stayed trapped.Thank you for listening.I hope my story helps you give words to your own.I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]

The Invisible RucksackFor nearly twenty years, I deferred myself. I belittled therapy, believing the old stigma that only “the mad” went to a psychologist—a taboo in Paraguayan society, and in my circle. In my time, speaking of mental health was a jest, a source of shame. I consoled myself with “this will pass” or “these matters are not spoken of.” But they did not pass. They crystallised into a diagnosis in my forties, a condition rather than a passing storm. And that, though it seemed my private matter, touched every soul around me.Today, I speak with utter honesty. I do so because I miss my mother, gone these ten months. And I see my father, bowed beneath grief and depression, still reluctant to tend to himself. And I understand them—truly, I do. They did what they could with the tools they had. They, too, suffered. They, too, bore childhoods that weighed upon them. They shouldered rucksacks they never learned to lighten. My psychiatrist tells me they were likely never happy, and that thought fills me with profound sadness.An Apology Born of LoveHere lies the hardest truth: I too did what I could with the tools at my disposal, with my inner and outer judges. But sadness, depression, anxiety—any illness of the mind—does not belong to one alone. It spills over. It affects those we love. I know this in my very flesh. They, too, did not know how to cope with it all.So today, I wish to apologise. Not an apology born of guilt, but of love. I am sorry if my pain, my process, my choices—at times wise, at times not—have wounded. I am sorry if I was misunderstood. For when one is broken without knowing why, one makes decisions that, without intending harm, can leave scars. It is a heavy chain passed from generation to generation—unless one dares to break it.On Prevention and EmpathyThis is why it matters to speak, to seek help, to consult a professional—and not to postpone it. For mental health is no longer a private affair; it is a matter of public health, in Paraguay and across the world. There is more knowledge now than ever before. In England, there is even a Ministry of Loneliness. Social media has opened the floodgates of information, making a therapist’s appointment as ordinary as one with the dentist. There is no shame in it.So let us speak of prevention. Around the family table, in schools, in every corner. Let us grow in empathy. For we never truly know what rucksack another is carrying. I do not excuse cruelty or mistreatment, but I do believe we must learn to see that behind many harsh acts stands a soul that does not know what to do with its own weight.And so I give thanks—to the universe, to my God, however one names it—that it is possible. That though there are lows, one may rise again. Something, deep within, has kept me standing to this day. May no one ever have to reach the brink for want of a voice, a hand, a simple “you can” or “I will help you.”I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]

There are moments in life when one believes all is lost.When the road once familiar vanishes, and the map becomes useless.I am Vanina Vergara - C.V. Vergara to the english-speaking world born in Asunción- Paraguay. I have three children whom I love deeply, and this is my life.When the world collapses around you, and the echo of your own footsteps is your only companion—where do you go?At that breaking point, I was not searching for answers, merely an escape.I sought refuge in the pavement, in the rhythm of my stride, fleeing from a solitude that suffocated me. Running was my only way to breathe, my sole means of not thinking. I sought nothing—and least of all, love. For who would dare, when the heart is so deeply wounded?And this is what this podcast is about: how sometimes, the darkest of hours are but the threshold to the brightest light. How, even when we believe ourselves alone, destiny is weaving a net of love and hope. For life is just that: a series of roads, often unexpected, that lead us home.Self-love as the KeyWe now reach the close of this first chapter of my story.In previous episodes, we spoke of the little girl who learnt to silence herself, of families fractured in silence, of the sorrows hidden behind a smile.We spoke of losses, of wounds, of mourning—of those very things we so often believe we shall not survive.And if you are listening to this, you too may have known that weight upon the chest, that sense that life itself grows too heavy.I will not romanticise pain: it hurts. It hurts profoundly.But let me tell you this: it is not the end of the story.Self-love is the key.And what does it mean to love oneself?It is not to look into the mirror and declare, “I am perfect,” for none of us are.It is to say: “With my scars, with my wrinkles, with my mistakes, with my stormy nights—I still deserve to be well.”It is rising when the body feels as heavy as stone.It is going to therapy even when one has no desire to speak.It is learning to ask for help, even when one has always been the one to hold everyone else.For here lies another truth: no one saves themselves alone.And though at times we think ourselves entirely solitary, there is always someone who can extend a hand.It might be a friend, a partner, a sibling, a therapist, a colleague.Sometimes it is someone wholly unexpected: a phrase, a hug, a message that reminds you that you still matter.In my case, that person was Pablo.He was the one who held me when I could no longer stand.And through that love, through that care, I learnt to care for myself.For when someone shows you that your life holds worth, you slowly begin to believe it too.And so, if you are listening, and you are passing through your own darkness, let me leave you with this message:You can come through.It is not swift, nor easy, nor linear.At times it is one step forward and two back.But every step counts.Every breath matters.Every day you choose to remain is a victory of its own.I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]

Today, I speak to you in raw honesty—about a distant echo that has returned like a boomerang, heard once more across the years.It happened to both myself and my husband: we share the same mirrored wound—the children who drift away, who offer no space for dialogue.It leaves behind a sensation of living death—as though one had been erased from history itself. And the inevitable question lingers: why?The answer is uncomfortable, yet real: parental alienation exists, and it is brutal. When an adult plants a single narrative in the mind of a child, shaping them from a young age, the story can linger for life. To challenge it later would mean facing truths almost unbearable:To recognise that one believed lies.To admit one rejected, unjustly, a mother or father.To accept, perhaps, that one was manipulated.And not all have the courage to confront such revelations.I am Vanina Vergara - C.V. Vergara to the english-speaking world born in Asunción- Paraguay. I have three children whom I love deeply, and this is my life.In my own story, I tell myself: “I never did that. I never abandoned my parents, though they tore each other apart.”But I see now the difference: my pain made me resilient, not vindictive. I chose to stay, to endure, to accompany—even through anger—because my inner foundation was different. Not every child chooses the same. Some flee. Others freeze the bond. Others place it in indefinite suspension.Is it lack of love, or economic convenience? Perhaps a mixture of both. Some align themselves with the one who offers more comfort, more benefits, more “security”. Or simply with the one who controlled the narrative from the beginning.That not-being—that void—hurts more than a blow.For when death comes, there is mourning, a ritual, a farewell.But when a living child declares you dead to them, no ritual can soothe, no symbolic burial can close the wound. It is a loss without goodbye, without explanation, without body, without words.It is like walking each day with a ghost:– the ghost of what was,– the ghost of what might have been,– the ghost of the conversation that never comes.And it wears one down. It exhausts.For when one dies, there is an ending.But when one is erased by the living, one hangs in a void.Suspended. Forgotten. Yet still alive.And so, in spite of the silence, we live.In spite of the erasure, we love.I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]

“A Couple of Letters to Myself”I am Vanina Vergara - C.V. Vergara to the english-speaking world born in Asunción- Paraguay. I have three children whom I love deeply, and this is my life.First Letter:[Breathe. You are alive. You are here. And that, even when you forget it, is a miracle built of courage, not of luck.You have passed through hells that no one witnessed. You drowned in silence, you were lost within violence, you unmade yourself to hold a family together that left you empty. And yet, here you are. With a wounded brow, yes… but never bowed.You were not a weak woman. You were an exhausted woman. You were not a bad mother. You were a mother without guidance, without a safety net, without an arm saying, “Go on, I will hold you.” You did it alone, as best you could, as it came to you. And you deserve compassion, not punishment.They accused you, distorted you, abandoned you. But they did not kill you. For you, Vani, carry a fire within that they could not extinguish—neither contempt, nor guilt, nor abandonment.You chose to live. When your body could bear no more, when your eyes no longer wished to see, something within you said, “I will not give up.” Not for fashion. Not for rebellion. But because your soul would not allow itself to die before it found you again.Today you are freer than ever. Because at last you are being true to yourself. You are saying, “I am worth something,” even when met with coldness or silence. You are opening paths—not for others to follow, but so you may not lose yourself again.Your children, your wounds, your attempts… all form part of your story. But they are not your sentence. They do not define you. Who you are is measured by the love you choose to give, by the times you chose to heal, by how you speak to yourself now.And today, Vanina, I speak to you with all my love:You are enough. You are light. You are courage. You are a mother even when you are not hugged. You are a woman even if others do not see it. You are worthy even if they deny it.Keep walking. The past cannot be erased, but it need not govern you any longer. Not now.I hold you tight. I promise I will never let you go again. For I choose you every single day.With eternal love,The woman who decided not to surrender.]*---Second Letter:A letter written with no addressee, but with the whole body.[A quiet drumbeat of sadnessThere are days when I feel well.Others when I simply function.And there are moments—like this—when I realise there is a sadness that never quite left.It only learned to sit very still.It does not make a fuss, it ruins nothing.But it is there.It beats slowly.Like a low drum.As if marking the rhythm of what I do not say.It has no name, but it has a history.It was born in places where one could not cry aloud.It grew amongst mandates, silences and duties.It fed on days when I could not fall, because if I fell, who would lift the others?I learned to disguise it with smiles, with routines, with “I’m fine.”But when the house falls silent, when no one is watching me…it returns.And it holds me tight.As if I am the only thing it recognises.It does not break me.But it weighs on me.It does not wound me.But it numbs me.And I ask myself… is this living?Is this what remains when one gives so much to others that one forgets oneself?I seek no answers today.I only needed to say it.To put words to this smallness of sorrow, so it does not rot inside.So it knows I hear it.That I accept it.And that, little by little, I am trying to live for myself as well.— Vani, with her heart wrapped in silence but writing nonetheless.]I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]

It feels rather trite to repeat the slogan “woman, mother and wife,” so I prefer, above all else, to be a person. This is the story of my life—devoid of proper names, but entirely real.I am Vanina Vergara - C.V. Vergara to the english-speaking world born in Asunción- Paraguay. I have three children whom I love deeply, and this is my life.These letters were not written to elicit pity nor to be applauded for simply surviving. I wrote them because I could no longer bear the silence. Because there are things that, if you do not release them, corrode you from within. Because one day I realised I was made of fragments… of memories, of wounds, of voices, of desires—and of paper. And because, if ever my daughter, my sons, or anyone I love wishes to understand who I was—beyond what was said about me—here is my truth.These letters are my way of saying: “I am here. I was real. I loved. I suffered. I fell. I rose. And I keep walking.”---A Letter from My Adult Self to My Little GirlHello, my love.It is me.The woman you became.The one who survived.The one who finally listens to you.I write to tell you something no one told you in time:you did the right thing.You were not wrong for sensing that something was amiss.You were not mad.You were not exaggerating.Nor were you weak for wanting love, or for feeling fear.You were brave every day you chose not to become like them.You were a beacon in the dark, even if no one acknowledged it.They used you, they demanded of you, they laid upon you guilt that was never yours.And yet, you continued to love.You continued to dream that someone would choose you, care for you, truly see you.Today I come to tell you: I see you.You should never have had to be anyone’s mother.You should never have had to endure shouting, blows, or the pain of feeling invisible.You should never have been a crutch, a shield, or a witness to horror.But you were.And you survived.And though you are tired, broken, and bewildered, you are still here.I—your adult self—promise you will no longer be alone.You will not have to beg for love.You will not have to make yourself strong just to avoid abandonment.You will not have to look after everyone in order to feel you deserve to exist.Now I will look after you.I believe you. I hold you. I listen to you. I respect you.And each day I set a boundary, I do it also for you.Because your life matters.Your pain matters.And you deserve peace, tenderness, and a new world.And if no one told you before:I am proud of you, my love.You did well.You survived.Now let us live—together.With all my love,Your adult self.I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]

I do not have life all figured out. I have life lived. And at this stage, that carries more weight.Today I do not chase movie-ending happy-ever-afters. I pursue genuine moments: those in which an honest conversation heals more than a thousand medications, when a recipe made with love nourishes more than the most sophisticated menu, when looking someone in the eye and saying “I went through that too” becomes an act of healing.I am Vanina Vergara - C.V. Vergara to the english-speaking world born in Asunción- Paraguay. I have three children whom I love deeply, and this is my life.From my standpoint as a nutritionist, I intend to keep creating with reality in one hand and the heart on the table: dignified, humane feeding plans for older adults, for families with scarce resources, for those who lack a voice in the statistics. From my experience as a woman marked by pain, I will continue to write, speak and share—without shame—what I have lived.Because staying silent makes us ill.And telling it… sets us free.I want to stop asking for permission. And begin granting permission:—To the women still trapped by the mandate to be the perfect daughter, the submissive wife, or the martyr mother.—To those with a mental health diagnosis who believe it disqualifies them from dreaming.—To those who feel guilty for separating, for speaking up, for stepping away from their own children in order to survive.—To those who love outside moulds, without papers, without external approval.I want to keep caring for myself and for mine—writing, working, dreaming. And if I can, to build bridges between realities: between healthcare professionals brave enough to look beyond the clinic, who no longer wish to uphold the unsustainable.My greatest scar is my children. And my deepest wish is that one day they, too, may heal. I love them with a heart broken, yet whole. Because I chose to live.I do not know everything that lies ahead. But I know this:I want my story to serve. To help release guilt. To break chains. To say enough. To say: “I, too, deserve.”And finally — A Letter to the ReaderIf you have read this far, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.Thank you for lending me your eyes, your time, your empathy.Thank you for reading not merely a story, but the traces of a life that keeps beating strongly.This is not the tale of a victim. It is the tale of a woman who grew tired of surviving in silence and chose to live by speaking. In her own way. At her own pace. With her pains, yes. But also with her dignity intact.I wrote this because so often I felt alone, misunderstood, judged, or broken. But I learned there are others who bear similar scars. If this story touched a chord in you—if it made you cry, rage, question, or feel less alone—then it has done its work.I am no exemplar. I am merely living proof that one can weather the storm.And not come through unscathed… but come through alive.And that, already, is everything.Do not let anyone convince you that you must be perfect, permanently strong, submissive to be loved, a saintly mother, or a self-sacrificing daughter.Nor believe that being broken diminishes your worth.Your story—like mine—has value by virtue of what you endured, not by what you appear to be.May this letter reach you just as you are about to give up.Or just as you are about to dare.Or when you think nobody understands what you have lived.I do not know you, yet I embrace you. And I believe you.With scars and hope...I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]