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]

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