My grandparents were world travelers. My abuelita would bring me a doll that represented the culture of each country she would travel to. She would also bring back textiles and handmade clothes to teach me how to sew.
There was so much activity that happened before I was born. As I became older and heard the stories, I was shocked. I remember there was ski equipment tucked away everywhere. But no one ever went skiing.
One day a story emerged about the fiestas surrounding ski trips. I discovered my dad was a ski instructor and my grandpa and my mom were snow bunnies.
Around the time I was born there was a skiing incident with my grandpa. I think a broken bone. And also during that time my uncle developed schizophrenia.
The activity that was deeply part of the high Flow lifestyle of my family seemed to cease almost overnight.
Oddly, my first memory was of being on a plane and then the cold whiteness of snow and a door.
I learned later that was not a skiing trip, but my first trip to visit my mom’s family in Minneapolis just weeks after I born. My grandpa Ray was with me.
Some people will say I couldn’t possibly remember that. But I do. I remember the sensations. Cold. Bright white. Entering a warm house.
I was nine months old when I learned to walk and potty trained myself shortly after. #GenX
As soon as I could, I was climbing out of my crib at night when everything was quiet to explore. I learned to scale the kitchen cupboards within months.
Unbeknownst to everyone, I had gluten-caused insomnia that wouldn’t clear until my celiac was finally diagnosed at 38.
As a 2e autistic (twice-exceptional, gifted and challenged), I could figure things out very easily. And I have a very sharp memory most of the time (except when brain fog creeps in).
I’m sure my presence was not easy for two volatile, entrepreneur parents. I began spending much more time with my abuelita after the separation when I was about 2.
I think that was about the time I was jumping on the bed while my baby-sitter was making out with her boyfriend.
You remember the story of three little monkeys jumping on the bed? Well, I was the one that fell off and broke my nose.
They don’t usually tell that tale in the “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!” rhyme.
They had tried having me at my mom’s very pink salon. But everyone smoked and the chemicals were awful.
Then daycare. But there was a blonde, curly-haired yt girl that was everyone’s favorite and she would get me in trouble during nap time. I think I pulled her hair. Maybe I bit her too.
My abuelita stepped in and began spending lots more time there. Until it was decided that I had to go to kindergarten (at four, a year early because I was a December girl).
Within a few years both my parents had moved on, remarried and began creating new nuclear families of their own.
My mom found her way back to that high Flow lifestyle through sex, drugs and rock-n-roll.
My dad found Flow in extreme activities like becoming a hot-air balloon pilot and flying helicopters dressed as Santa Claus. He flew into my school when I was in 4th grade and gave everyone candy.
I don’t know if he thought it would help me, the quiet, PTSD-scared, 2e kid to be liked more. It did not.
I just got bullied more.
My favorite Flow time was summer shade, reading Nancy Drew mysteries from the roof of my dad’s Mediterranean house. I would sneak out a bedroom window, bring a clock (because time blindness), climb over a daring, slanted overhang with a hard ceramic patio three stories below, to the shaded roof peak. No one knew where I was.
This life-or-death feat would kick up my neurochemistry to prime me for hours of Flow reading.
Escaping my step-mom’s chores and caring for my siblings, I could touch the giant oaks and look out to the serpentine cut in the woods of the American River and the horizon beyond.
There I would find a soft breeze in the canopy — precious in the Sacramento Valley 100F+ heat.
Pure peace.
Stay wild, love fiercely. Your presence is golden.
With stardust and celestial love ✨🪐💫
xo Ixchel
P.S. Citing is a feminist and decolonial power move (/ht to Kelly Diels for making that an anthem). If you’ve gained insights and shifts from my work, please remember to cite me and share Dragon 🐉 Letters with a friend. Not citing is a form of epistemicide.
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I was raised and bore children on the traditional, unceded, and stolen lands of the Coast and Central Valley Miwok (colonized as Petaluma, CA) and Nisenan (colonized as Sacramento and Fair Oaks, CA), past, present, and future. I also write, work, and live in the highland forest of the traditional, unceded and stolen lands of the Totonac, Nahua, and Mexicah, past, present, and future, in what is known as Coatepec, Veracruz, Mexico.
P.P.S. I do not live or consent to the colonial impositions regarding the construct of Time. I also practice honoring rhythms of work, play, and rest so that I can serve you with embodied presence and with loving care. This means I may take several days to respond to your requests and questions. (h/t Eva Glamaris)
P.P.S. A mention is not necessarily an endorsement of someone. It’s an acknowledgment, a citation, of the origin of information in my process of understanding. (h/t Kelly Diels)
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Copyright © 2026, Cheyenne, WY, and Veracruz, Mexico, All rights reserved. Sharing your lineage of knowledge is decolonial. When iterating, please cite me. Not citing is epistemicide.
