La tierra está cansada (The earth is tired)

A mixed-media collage inspired by my grandmother’s words: La tierra está cansada (‘The earth is tired’). Through torn textures, natural imagery, and fragments of leaves and creatures, I wanted to echo her message—a reminder of our planet’s fragility and the urgent need to care for her. -Photo: Yurani Cubillos

During my trip to Colombia, I visited my grandmother's coffee farm, a place I hold close to my heart. It is a place where I find peace and healing, where I am grounded in where I came from, and where I feel a sense of belonging I often long for.

My grandma, standing in her home in Colombia, beaming with pride as she wears the tote bag I designed. Her smile carries generations of love and strength, reminding me that every piece of art I create is also hers. -Photo: Yurani Cubillos

I left Colombia at the age of ten years old with my mother. Since then, I have never felt like I truly belong anywhere—not Colombian enough, and definitely not American. Even now, after living in Puerto Vallarta, México, for the last six years, in a country with a culture that hugs me and reminds me of home, I sometimes find myself floating in a void.

But when I am with my grandmother, I belong.

Her presence is like a mirror to my ancestry. In her curls, I see my own. In the shape of her nose and lips, I recognize the features carried down to me. She reminds me that I am not rootless, that my lineage is alive in my body. Sitting with her, I feel hugged not only by her warmth but also by the generations that came before me.

This trip, I delighted in the grapevine that

A cluster of green grapes ripening under the Colombian sun, hanging gently from my grandmother’s grapevine. A reminder of her care, her land, and the sweetness nurtured across generations. -Photo: Yurani Cubillos

stretches wide and generous across her yard. Its clusters of sweet and sour grapes invited us to gather, taste, and laugh together. I savored them slowly, feeling the way her land continues to nourish us. I rested in the hammock, swaying gently as the afternoon sun softened and my eyes closed. To fall into a peaceful sleep there, cradled by the breeze, the rustle of leaves, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee, was to feel the earth itself embracing me, reminding me to slow down, savor, and give thanks.

While talking with my grandmother, she mentioned how things don’t grow as easily and abundantly as they once did. She said, “La tierra está cansada”—the earth is tired. I felt those words so deeply. I felt them in my bones. I felt them in my connective tissues. In my brain. People demand too much of the earth, and she’s tired.

My grandmother’s hands sorting freshly harvested coffee beans before roasting. These hands, marked with wisdom and work, carry the story of resilience, tradition, and the deep aroma of our roots. -Photo: Yurani Cubillos

As a queer woman of color, I too often feel exhausted by the pressure of perfection—the constant performance I can’t seem to turn off. The endless work of teaching, caring, and nurturing in a world that so often does not return the same. Her words echoed within me: how do I take care of myself? How do I stay grounded? How do I continue to love and care while still embracing my own strength? How do I keep the heaviness of this world from working me to the point where I cannot grow and bloom?

And I think of the women. We demand too much of women. And we women–we’re tired.

The women who sustain their families with every ounce of energy they have. The women stuck in situations that no longer serve them. The women who feel reduced to bodies that care, clean, and give birth. The women who have laid their dreams and desires aside. The women who are left feeling unloved, uncared for. The women who are constantly over-explaining, shrinking, apologizing. The women who feel guilty when they rest. The women who are no longer with us—lives stolen by femicide. And the women who remain, carrying the weight of absence, figuring out their grief.

My grandmother’s tired land reminded me that all living beings need rest–the earth, people, our communities–for everything that longs to flourish. Healing begins when we listen to those whispers, when we pause, when we choose to replenish rather than deplete.

Today, I invite you to hold space for yourself and for others—to slow down, to turn off the performance, and to simply be. Step outside and let nature hold you. Whether it’s a park, a trail, or a small garden: allow the earth to restore your energy. 

In that space of stillness, we create the possibility to root, to heal, and to bloom again.