There is one sentence I’ve found myself coming back to over the years.

I don’t think I understood it when I was younger.

Maybe I couldn’t.

But somewhere along the way, it began to change something in me.

Our parents did the best they could.

That realization didn’t arrive all at once.

It came quietly, almost without me noticing, while I was still trying to understand why some old wounds seemed to follow me wherever I went.

Most of our parents — yours, mine, the people next door — weren’t perfect.

They were just people.

They made mistakes, just as we do. Some choices helped us. Others hurt us. Most of them were probably doing the best they knew how.

They raised us with what they had inside them. What they believed. What they had learned. The emotional tools life had given them, whether those tools were enough or not.

That doesn’t excuse everything.

I don’t think it should.

But I do think it’s true.

Understanding that doesn’t suddenly make the painful parts disappear.

Some words leave scars.

Some silences stay with us much longer than we’d like.

Some ways of raising a child quietly become part of the adult they grow into.

The pain was real.

So were its consequences.

But over time, I stopped asking only, “Why did this happen to me?”

I found myself wondering something else.

What happened to them before I was ever here?

That question didn’t erase my pain.

It simply gave it a little more context.

More often than not, the people who hurt us are carrying wounds they never learned to recognize themselves.

Our parents were children once, too.

Sometimes I forget that.

Someone taught them what love looked like.

Someone taught them how to deal with fear.

Someone showed them what family was supposed to be.

Whether those lessons were healthy or not, they probably felt normal.

And most of us don’t question what feels normal until much later.

We simply pass it on.

Realizing that helped me let go of some of my resentment.

Not all of it.

I don’t think healing works that way.

Some wounds need more time than understanding alone can give them.

Changing patterns we’ve carried for forty or fifty years isn’t something that happens overnight.

At least it hasn’t been for me.

Some days it feels easier than others.

But understanding where those patterns came from helped me stop fighting my past quite so much.

I no longer needed every answer.

Sometimes understanding was enough.

Much of my parents’ pain found its way to me.

It became part of my inheritance.

But so did beautiful things.

Their values.

Their strength.

Their kindness.

The lessons that still guide me today.

That’s the strange thing about families.

We inherit both.

The light and the shadow.

Neither started with us.

Now that inheritance is in my hands.

I can’t choose what I received.

I never could.

But I can choose what I pass on.

I can keep learning.

I can question things I once believed without thinking.

I can heal.

I can ask for help.

And maybe, little by little, I can decide that some stories don’t have to continue through me.

Understanding our parents doesn’t erase the pain they may have caused.

It doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened.

It doesn’t mean giving up healthy boundaries.

It simply means letting go of the impossible expectation that they should have been people they never had the chance to become.

There is something unexpectedly freeing about that.

At some point, we stop living only as someone’s child.

We begin living as the person responsible for what comes next.

The inheritance I received wasn’t my choice.

The inheritance I leave behind will be.

Whenever I need to remind myself of that, I come back to the same simple sentence.

Our parents did the best they could.

How could I ask them for more when they had no more to give?

✨ Written by Mimy
Writer, photographer, and seeker of quiet truths.
I believe in the power of words to heal, to connect, and to reignite what fear tried to silence.
I write to remember — and to remind — that it’s never too late to feel again.

✨ “Would you like to support my writing? You can buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

They Did the Best They Could was originally published in Beyond Lines on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

There was a time I looked back at my life and felt ashamed.

I would think about my mistakes. The things I did wrong. The people I hurt. The chances I let go. And somehow it all turned into this quiet judgment of who I used to be.

Until it didn’t.

Something softened.

I didn’t need to forgive myself like I had done something “unforgivable.”
I just needed to understand I was human back then. Nothing more complicated than that.

Today I feel compassion for her.

Not pity. I don’t mean that.

Not that sad, distant feeling of “poor her.”

It’s quieter than that. Less dramatic.

It’s just… seeing her clearly.

She was lost in ways she didn’t even know how to name. Making choices she truly believed in. Doing her best with a kind of blind certainty that only makes sense when you don’t know better yet.

She kept moving forward, even when she didn’t really know where forward was.

In my twenties… I didn’t know so many things.

I didn’t know how to set boundaries. Not really.

I didn’t know how to sit with myself without wanting to escape.

Silence made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do with it.

I didn’t know how to say no without feeling guilty afterward.

And I definitely didn’t understand that being constantly busy could be a way of not having to feel anything.

So I stayed busy.

I worked. I moved. I filled every space I could.

Because stopping… stopping felt like something I couldn’t afford.

And yes, I made mistakes.

More than I want to count, honestly.

Maybe I hurt people too.

Not because I meant to. I don’t think there was cruelty there. Just confusion. Fear. Lack of awareness. All of it mixed together in ways I couldn’t separate at the time.

Now I can look at her without tightening inside.

No shame.

No rejection.

Not even pity.

Just this strange softness.

Like… oh. I see you.

You were trying.

That’s all.

You were really trying.

And maybe that has to be enough.

Maybe growing up is not about cutting that version of ourselves off.

Maybe it’s just sitting next to her for a moment and saying:

“I get it.

You didn’t know.

You were still going anyway.”

Since I understood that, I stopped fighting my past.

It’s still there, of course. But it doesn’t feel like an enemy anymore.

It feels like something I walk with.

And slowly, something changed:

the compassion I feel for who I was started showing up in how I treat who I am right now.

Because I’m still learning.

Still messing things up sometimes.

Still figuring it out.

And I hope, quietly, that I keep becoming someone who can stay gentle with that process… without needing to be perfect inside it.

✨ Written by Mimy
Writer, photographer, and seeker of quiet truths.
I believe in the power of words to heal, to connect, and to reignite what fear tried to silence.
I write to remember — and to remind — that it’s never too late to feel again.

✨ “Would you like to support my writing? You can buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

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I Understand You was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Hay una frase que todos, tarde o temprano, nos hemos dicho alguna vez:

“Si hubiera hecho las cosas de otra manera…”

Si hubiera dicho esto. Si no hubiera dicho aquello. Si hubiera tomado otra decisión. Entonces hoy mi vida sería distinta.

Creo que todos hemos recorrido ese camino alguna vez. Todos hemos mirado hacia atrás buscando el momento exacto en que, según nosotros, todo cambió. Es humano hacerlo.

Y también es humano lamentarse cuando las consecuencias de nuestras decisiones no fueron las que esperábamos.

Creo que es bueno reconocer que nuestras acciones tienen consecuencias. Es bueno asumir nuestra responsabilidad. Pero también llega un momento en que necesitamos aceptar algo que no siempre nos gusta escuchar: el pasado no puede cambiarse.

No importa cuánto lo pensemos. No importa cuánto lo deseemos.

No podemos borrar una palabra que ya dijimos. No podemos deshacer una decisión que ya tomamos. No podemos volver atrás y actuar como la persona que todavía no éramos.

Eso también fue parte de nosotros.

A veces hicimos lo mejor que pudimos. Otras veces no. Pero, de una manera u otra, actuamos con la conciencia que teníamos en ese momento. No podíamos responder desde la persona que somos hoy, porque esa persona todavía no existía.

Y eso cambia mucho la manera de mirar el pasado.

Porque la conciencia que tenemos ahora nació precisamente de esas experiencias, incluso de nuestros errores.

Por eso, cuando me descubro pensando en todo lo que debí hacer, intento detenerme.

Ya no quiero vivir entre los “hubiera” y los “debería”.

Prefiero preguntarme:

¿Qué puedo hacer ahora?

Ahora puedo hablar de otra manera.

Ahora puedo actuar con más calma.

Ahora puedo elegir distinto.

Ahora mis acciones pueden reflejar lo que he aprendido.

El pasado ya hizo su trabajo. Me enseñó, aunque algunas lecciones dolieran más que otras.

Quedarme atrapada allí no cambia nada.

En cambio, el presente sigue siendo un lugar donde todavía puedo construir algo.

Quizás esa sea la diferencia.

No vivir diciendo: hubiera… debería…

Sino vivir diciendo:

Ahora.

Porque es aquí donde todavía podemos elegir.

Lo demás son recuerdos. A veces hermosos, a veces dolorosos.

Pero, al final, son paisajes que ya quedaron atrás.

✨ Escrito por Mimy
Escritora, fotógrafa y alma curiosa.
Creo en el poder de la palabra para sanar, para conectar y para encender lo que el miedo quiso apagar.
Escribo para recordar — y recordarme — que siempre es tiempo de volver a sentir.

✨ “¿Quieres apoyar mi escritura? Puedes invitarme un café: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

Versión original en inglés publicada en Beyond the lines.

Hay algo que hago desde hace años y que casi nunca le cuento a nadie.

Cada vez que voy caminando por la calle y un niño, una niña o un bebé pasa junto a mí, hago una pequeña oración en silencio.

Es algo muy breve.

Ellos siguen su camino sin imaginar que, durante unos segundos, alguien acaba de desearles una buena vida.

Lo curioso es que mi oración ya no es la misma.

Hace algunos años les pedía una vida que hoy ya no les pediría.

Deseaba que crecieran sanos y fuertes. Que estudiaran, encontraran un buen trabajo, se casaran, tuvieran hijos y fueran personas útiles para la sociedad.

No era una mala oración.

Era la oración de la persona que yo era entonces.

Pero con el tiempo entendí que una vida buena no siempre tiene la misma forma.

Ahora, cuando veo a esos niños, mi oración empieza de otra manera.

Pido que logren atravesar su infancia y su juventud. Ninguna niñez es perfecta. Ninguna adolescencia está libre de heridas, de dudas o de pérdidas. Cada persona carga batallas que muchas veces nadie alcanza a ver.

Después pido que encuentren un propósito que les dé ganas de levantarse cada mañana. No importa si lo descubren en su trabajo, en una vocación, en una familia, en el arte, en la ciencia, en el servicio o en cualquier otro lugar. Solo deseo que haya algo que haga que su vida tenga sentido para ellos.

También pido que sean lo más auténticos posible.

Que no vivan intentando cumplir las expectativas de otros. Que no lleguen al final de sus días sintiendo que pasaron la vida interpretando un papel que nunca eligieron.

Deseo que tengan la libertad de construir una vida que sientan verdaderamente suya.

Algunos trabajarán sin descanso. Otros abrirán un pequeño negocio. Algunos serán artistas, maestros, médicos o agricultores. Algunos se casarán; otros preferirán vivir solos. Algunos dedicarán su vida a una fe; otros encontrarán sentido de otra manera.

Hay tantas formas de vivir una buena vida.

Ya no deseo que todos recorran el mismo camino.

Solo deseo que el camino que elijan los acerque a la paz.

Y cuando llegue el momento de cerrar los ojos por última vez, ojalá puedan hacerlo con serenidad y pensar:

Viví una vida que sentí mía.

Eso, para mí, es una vida bien vivida.

✨ Escrito por Mimy
Escritora, fotógrafa y alma curiosa.
Creo en el poder de la palabra para sanar, para conectar y para encender lo que el miedo quiso apagar.
Escribo para recordar — y recordarme — que siempre es tiempo de volver a sentir.

✨ “¿Quieres apoyar mi escritura? Puedes invitarme un café: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

Versión original en inglés publicada en Women Write

Every once in a while, an old memory knocks on my door.

It can be something very small.

A conversation from years ago.

A decision I wish I had made differently.

Sometimes I even catch myself rewriting it in my head, changing a few words here and there, as if that could somehow change what happened.

It never does.

I think most of us do this.

We look back because we’re trying to understand. We wonder if one different choice would have changed everything that came after.

Maybe it would have.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

The truth is, I’ll never know.

For a long time, I judged the person I used to be with the understanding I have now. It sounds reasonable, but it isn’t.

The woman I am today has lived through things she hadn’t lived through yet.

She has made mistakes the younger version of me hadn’t made yet.

She has learned lessons that only came much later.

Of course they aren’t the same person.

Sometimes I did the best I could.

Sometimes fear made my decisions for me.

Sometimes I simply got it wrong.

None of those things can be erased.

They’re part of my story now.

I don’t have to like every chapter, but pretending they never happened won’t make them disappear.

These days, when I notice myself drifting into if only…, I try to ask a different question.

Not, What should I have done?

But, What feels like the right thing to do today?

That’s a question I can actually answer.

Maybe today I can apologize.

Maybe today I can listen instead of trying to be right.

Maybe today I can be a little gentler with someone.

Or with myself.

That’s enough.

Yesterday has already said everything it had to say.

Today is still speaking.

And I’d rather listen to today.

The old memories will probably visit again someday.

I’ll let them come.

I’ll let them leave.

But I don’t have to follow them home.

✨ Written by Mimy
Writer, photographer, and seeker of quiet truths.
I believe in the power of words to heal, to connect, and to reignite what fear tried to silence.
I write to remember — and to remind — that it’s never too late to feel again.

✨ “Would you like to support my writing? You can buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

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You Can’t Go Back was originally published in Beyond Lines on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I realized something today.

Actually… maybe I’ve known it for a long time.

I just never told anyone.

Whenever I’m walking and a child passes by, I say a little prayer.

Just in my head.

It’s over before they disappear around the corner.

I’ve been doing it for years.

The strange thing is, my prayer isn’t the same anymore.

When I was younger, I used to pray for what I thought every good life should have.

Good health.

A good education.

A good job.

A family.

Children.

The kind of life people usually hope for.

I don’t think there was anything wrong with that.

It just made sense to me back then.

I guess we all pray from the place we’re standing in.

Now my prayer is different.

These days I just hope they get through childhood.

Teenage years can be rough.

I think we forget that sometimes.

I hope they meet good people.

Just a few is enough.

I hope they don’t lose their curiosity.

Or their kindness.

Or themselves.

After that…

The rest belongs to them.

Maybe they’ll get married.

Maybe they won’t.

Maybe they’ll have children.

Or maybe they’ll wake up one day and realize they’re happy without them.

Maybe they’ll love a quiet life that nobody else would choose.

Maybe they’ll end up doing something I can’t even imagine.

I used to think those things mattered more than anything.

I’m not so sure anymore.

I just hope that, whatever their life looks like, it feels like their own.

Not somebody else’s.

Sometimes I wonder when my prayer changed.

I honestly can’t remember.

There wasn’t one big moment.

It just happened.

One day I stopped praying for a successful life.

Without even noticing, I started praying for a peaceful one.

Maybe that’s what happens as we get older.

Or maybe it’s just what happened to me.

I don’t really know.

Anyway…

I wanted to tell you because I did it again today.

A little boy walked past me while I was waiting to cross the street.

By the time the light turned green, my prayer was already over.

He never knew.

He probably never will.

But somehow…

I still hope it reaches him.

✨ Written by Mimy
Writer, photographer, and seeker of quiet truths.
I believe in the power of words to heal, to connect, and to reignite what fear tried to silence.
I write to remember — and to remind — that it’s never too late to feel again.

✨ “Would you like to support my writing? You can buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

A Little Prayer was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Hay una idea que me acompaña desde hace un tiempo.

¿Y qué tal si la vida no está hecha solamente de los grandes acontecimientos? ¿Y qué tal si no consiste únicamente en los grandes éxitos o en esos momentos que llegan y cambian nuestro rumbo para siempre?

Quizás esperamos demasiado de esas cumbres.

Quizás olvidamos que la mayor parte de nuestra existencia transcurre en un lugar mucho más sencillo.

En levantarnos una mañana y descubrir una nueva cana frente al espejo.

En encontrar una moneda olvidada entre los cojines del sillón.

En detenernos un instante para admirar la flor más bonita del camino.

En agradecer la sombra de un árbol durante un día de muchísimo calor.

En sonreír porque alguien nos sostuvo la puerta sin esperar nada a cambio.

Son momentos tan pequeños que rara vez pensamos en ellos.

Y, sin embargo, ahí también está la vida.

No cambian el mundo.

No aparecen en las noticias.

No son historias que solemos contar durante años.

Pero cambian ese minuto.

Ese segundo.

Esa respiración.

Y, a veces, eso basta.

Creo que hemos aprendido a medir nuestra vida por los grandes acontecimientos: el trabajo soñado, un viaje importante, un amor que llega, un logro que parecía imposible.

Y claro que esos momentos importan.

Nos transforman.

Nos acompañan durante mucho tiempo.

Pero las cumbres no son el lugar donde vivimos.

Vivimos en el camino.

En las conversaciones sencillas.

En las pequeñas risas.

En el olor del café por la mañana.

En un libro que nos encuentra justo cuando lo necesitábamos.

En descubrir, casi sin darnos cuenta, que hoy estamos un poco más tranquilos que hace un año.

Ese es nuestro camino invisible.

Tan cotidiano que muchas veces dejamos de verlo.

Y, precisamente por eso, olvidamos cuánto sostiene nuestra existencia.

Tal vez una vida plena no sea la que acumula más grandes momentos.

Tal vez sea la que aprende a reconocer la belleza de los pequeños.

A detenerse.

A compartirlos.

A reírse de ellos.

A agradecerlos mientras todavía están ocurriendo.

Celebra las cumbres cuando lleguen.

Pero no dejes pasar el camino.

Porque es allí, entre los instantes más sencillos, donde transcurre la mayor parte de nuestra vida.

Y quizás, también, donde se esconde su verdadera belleza.

✨ Escrito por Mimy
Escritora, fotógrafa y alma curiosa.
Creo en el poder de la palabra para sanar, para conectar y para encender lo que el miedo quiso apagar.
Escribo para recordar — y recordarme — que siempre es tiempo de volver a sentir.

✨ “¿Quieres apoyar mi escritura? Puedes invitarme un café: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

Versión original en inglés publicada en Women Write.

There’s an idea I’ve been carrying with me for a while.

What if life isn’t made only of big events? What if it isn’t just about great achievements or those rare moments that change everything forever?

Maybe we expect too much from the peaks.

Maybe we forget that most of our lives happen somewhere much quieter.

In waking up one morning and noticing another gray hair in the mirror.

In finding a forgotten coin between the couch cushions.

In stopping for a moment because the flower by the sidewalk is impossibly beautiful.

In feeling grateful for the shade of a tree on a day that’s unbearably hot.

In smiling because someone held the door open without expecting anything in return.

They’re such small moments that we hardly ever think about them.

And yet, that’s where life is.

They don’t change the world.

They don’t make the news.

They’re not the stories we’ll be telling for years.

But they change that minute.

That second.

That breath.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

I think we’ve learned to measure our lives by the big moments: the dream job, the unforgettable trip, finding love, reaching a goal that once felt impossible.

And those moments do matter.

They change us.

Some of them stay with us for years.

But the peaks are not where we live.

We live on the path.

In ordinary conversations.

In quiet laughter.

In the smell of coffee in the morning.

In a book that finds us just when we need it.

In realizing, almost by accident, that today we’re a little more at peace than we were a year ago.

That’s our invisible path.

So ordinary that we often stop seeing it.

And because of that, we forget how much it quietly holds our lives together.

Maybe a meaningful life isn’t the one that collects the greatest moments.

Maybe it’s the one that learns to notice the beauty in the smallest ones.

To pause.

To share them.

To laugh because of them.

To be grateful while they’re still happening.

Celebrate the peaks when they come.

But don’t overlook the path.

Because it’s there, among the simplest moments, that most of our lives unfold.

And maybe, once we learn to see that invisible path, we realize we never lacked reasons to know we were truly living.

✨ Written by Mimy
Writer, photographer, and seeker of quiet truths.
I believe in the power of words to heal, to connect, and to reignite what fear tried to silence.
I write to remember — and to remind — that it’s never too late to feel again.

✨ “Would you like to support my writing? You can buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

The Invisible Path was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Voy a confesarte algo.

Mi vida es como un jardín.

No un jardín ideal. No un Edén perfecto donde todo florece al mismo tiempo y ninguna hoja toca jamás el suelo.

No.

Mi vida se parece más a uno de esos jardines reales que tendríamos tú y yo.

Tiene flores preciosas que nacen por temporadas. Algunas aparecen de repente y llenan de color los días. Otras dejan caer sus pétalos cuando llega el momento, porque ninguna flor está hecha para permanecer abierta para siempre.

Hay rincones bien cuidados, porque se me da mejor atenderlos. Y hay otros que todavía necesitan un poco más de agua, un poco más de sol, un poco más de mí. Los sigo descubriendo.

También hay hojas secas.

Nunca faltan las hojas secas.

Las encuentro sobre los senderos, entre las macetas, debajo de los árboles. Antes pensaba que debía recogerlas todas de inmediato. Ahora entiendo que también cuentan una historia. Son la prueba de que algo vivió, creció y cumplió su tiempo.

Mi jardín conoce todas las estaciones.

A veces parece una postal de primavera.

A veces tiene la dulce nostalgia del otoño.

Otras veces guarda el silencio del invierno o el calor apasionado del verano.

No siempre luce igual.

Y eso está bien.

También hay hierbas que aún no he arrancado. Algunas porque no las había visto. Otras porque todavía estoy aprendiendo a distinguirlas de las flores.

Y hay sorpresas.

Semillas que llegan sin avisar, traídas por pájaros, insectos o por el simple capricho del viento. Algunas terminan convirtiéndose en las flores más hermosas del jardín.

Supongo que eso también pasa en la vida.

Las mejores cosas no siempre son las que planeamos.

Mi jardín no es perfecto.

Tiene rincones desordenados, pétalos caídos, ramas torcidas y temporadas difíciles.

Pero es real.

Es mío.

Está vivo.

Y después de tantos años intentando que se pareciera a otra cosa, creo que por fin puedo decir que me gusta exactamente así.

✨ Escrito por Mimy
Escritora, fotógrafa y alma curiosa.
Creo en el poder de la palabra para sanar, para conectar y para encender lo que el miedo quiso apagar.
Escribo para recordar — y recordarme — que siempre es tiempo de volver a sentir.

✨ “¿Quieres apoyar mi escritura? Puedes invitarme un café: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

Versión original en inglés publicada en Women Write.

Let me confess something.

My life is like a garden.

Not an ideal garden. Not a perfect Eden where everything blooms at once and no leaf ever touches the ground.

No.

My life looks much more like the kind of garden you and I might have.

It has beautiful flowers that bloom in their own seasons. Some appear out of nowhere and fill my days with color. Others let their petals fall when the time comes, because no flower is meant to stay in bloom forever.

There are corners that are well cared for because they come naturally to me. And there are others that still need a little more water, a little more sunlight, a little more of me. I’m still getting to know them.

There are dry leaves, too.

There are always dry leaves.

I find them on the paths, between the pots, beneath the trees. I used to think I had to clear them away immediately. Now I understand that they tell a story as well. They are proof that something lived, grew, and completed its season.

My garden knows every season.

Sometimes it looks like a spring postcard.

Sometimes it carries the gentle nostalgia of autumn.

Other times it holds the quiet of winter or the passionate warmth of summer.

It doesn’t always look the same.

And that’s okay.

There are weeds I haven’t pulled out yet. Some because I didn’t notice them. Others because I’m still learning how to tell them apart from the flowers.

And there are surprises.

Seeds that arrive without warning, carried by birds, insects, or the simple whim of the wind. Some of them become the most beautiful flowers in the entire garden.

I suppose life works that way, too.

The best things don’t always come from our plans.

My garden isn’t perfect.

It has messy corners, fallen petals, crooked branches, and difficult seasons.

But it’s real.

It’s mine.

It’s alive.

And after spending so many years trying to make it look like something else, I think I can finally say that I love it exactly as it is.

✨ Written by Mimy
Writer, photographer, and seeker of quiet truths.
I believe in the power of words to heal, to connect, and to reignite what fear tried to silence.
I write to remember — and to remind — that it’s never too late to feel again.

✨ “Would you like to support my writing? You can buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/mimyflores ☕”

My Garden was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.