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Hay una etapa de la maternidad de la que casi no se habla. No está en los libros de crianza. No aparece en los cursos para padres. No se comenta entre amigas cuando los hijos son pequeños.

Es la etapa en la que los hijos ya son adultos…pero una sigue siendo mamá.

Y aunque desde afuera parece que todo está bien —ya crecieron, trabajan, estudian, se manejan solos —por dentro algo se mueve profundamente.

Es una transición silenciosa.Y muchas veces, solitaria.

At Seekers Circle, we’re a community for conscious living and co-elevation.Every month, we explore themes that help us move through life with more awareness, presence, and intention.

This month, we shift into renewal.

Spring is not my “favorite” season—truthfully, I love them all. Each one brings its own meaning, its own rhythm, its own lessons. But spring does have a particular energy that invites us to pay attention. Things start moving again. There’s a sense of forward motion, of new possibilities, of life reorganizing itself.

For the past ten years or so, I’ve made it a practice to design my year intentionally. Between November and January, I take time to reflect on where I’ve been, what I’ve learned, and what I want to create next. I don’t rush it. I let clarity arrive slowly.

And then, when spring comes, I revisit it all.I look at the intentions I set earlier…

During the last years of my father’s life, I would travel to Madrid to visit him. Each night after dinner, we had a ritual: we’d watch a movie together. He had this little notepad, where he would carefully jot down the date, the name of the film, the director, and the main actors. There was something deeply ceremonial about it—his love for cinema, his sharp intellect, and his reverence for the art form turned every evening into something so special with such connection.

By the end of his life, those notebooks held over 350 titles. He was, without a doubt, the most brilliant and intellectual man I’ve ever known, with a photographic memory and a unique appreciation for art in all its forms. By his own account a frustrated painter himself. 

The night we watched Pollock is etched in my heart. My brother Tony—a well-known artist himself—joined us, and the three…

This month, instead of choosing a book about renewal directly, I wanted to share something that feels like renewal in a different way.

I’m recommending Nelson Mandela’s My African Stories, a collection of traditional African short stories gathered from across the continent—South Africa, Tanzania, Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Congo, Nigeria, Kenya, Morocco, and more. The stories are illustrated by African artists, and each one carries the tone, texture, and imagination of its place of origin.

Mandela compiled this book with a simple and powerful intention: that African children would grow up listening to the stories of their own ancestors, their own cultures, their own lands. There is something deeply meaningful about that—to preserve voice, imagination, and history through storytelling.

I inherited this book from my father. He was a thirsty reader and had a unique instinct for choosing books that carried substance.

He loved this one—not only because of the beauty…

These forum posts aren’t meant to be reviews or critiques—I’m not here to analyze every frame or debate the acting choices.

What I care about most is how a film makes me feel, what it stirs inside, and what I walk away with. Maestro (2023), directed by and starring Bradley Cooper, did just that—it stayed with me in quiet, surprising ways.

There’s been a lot of mixed talk around this film, from its storyline to performances. But I was drawn to it immediately because I’m always fascinated by biopics of artists. They’re usually rich with complexity, and Maestro is no exception.

What spoke to me most was the contrast in Leonard Bernstein’s life between the solitude of the composer and the public persona of the conductor. That beautiful tension between turning inward to create and turning outward to perform—it’s something so many artists wrestle with. The film touches on this duality gently but…

February tends to center the conversation around love, but often only in its most visible form—romantic connection, adorned in sentiment and celebration. And while that version has its place, the deeper truth is that love, at its core, is a practice. It’s how we relate, how we show up, and how we grow—not just in partnership, but in how we engage with ourselves.

When entered into with presence and care, romantic relationships can become powerful sites of joy and awakening. They allow us to experience connection, tenderness, and intimacy in ways that feel expansive. But they also inevitably surface the parts of us that are still in process—the stories, fears, and reactions we might prefer to keep hidden. This is not a flaw in love. It is part of what makes love a path of transformation.

In my own journey, I’ve come to understand that what we bring to a…

I watched Marriage Story shortly after my own divorce, and it truly broke my heart. It touched something so personal in me—watching how a family, once so connected and loving, can unravel in the most painful, human way. The film shows how divorce can begin with good intentions, how both partners can still care for one another, and yet how quickly things can deteriorate under pressure, especially when outside forces begin to shape the narrative.

The depiction of the lawyers was devastating. Not villainous, just… systemic. The way the process began to shape the outcome, and how, once set in motion, it pushed them further apart—past a point of no return. It’s like watching something beautiful slip through your fingers. And it’s made even more painful by the fact that you can still see the love underneath. You know they both care. But the structure they're caught in has such momentum that…