My Hair, My Vow, My Mandate of Grief

There comes a moment in every life when something inside you breaks — not loudly, not suddenly, but like a quiet crack deep beneath the surface. For me, that fracture began the day my father died. But it didn’t finish breaking until much later.

I made a manda recently — a sacred vow to La Virgen de Guadalupe. Not in the moment of his death, but in the silence that followed. In the space between feeling helpless and realizing I had no choice but to become something more. I promised her I would not cut my hair until I became someone my family could rely on — financially, emotionally, spiritually. Until I became the man my father once was.

And this manda… it is not just mine.

It is a mirror of my father’s own vow, made decades ago when my mother was carrying me through a pregnancy so difficult it threatened both of us. In desperation and love, he promised not to cut his hair until I was born safely. That vow carried me into this world. Now I carry him with mine.

But lately, everything feels heavier.

I no longer have a job. I left it by choice — not because I wanted to, but because I still have a shred of pride left in me. They wanted to fire me without grace or understanding, so I took the last bit of control I had and walked out on my own terms. I am not a machine. I am not disposable. I am a human being, and I deserve to be treated as such.

I tried. I tried to be patient, to learn, to show up on time, to be kind to children, to listen, to adapt. But at every turn, I felt underestimated, misunderstood, and in many ways mocked. I was expected to act like I’d been doing this my whole life — despite it being my first job of its kind. Despite juggling grief. Despite trying to rebuild myself from nothing. They didn’t see the weight I was carrying, and they didn’t care to ask.

So I left.

Now I sit here — jobless, grieving, and carrying a promise I swore to keep. I don’t know how or when I’ll become the man I told La Virgen I would be. But I have to believe the vow means something. That this long, untamed hair growing day by day is more than just hair. It’s memory. It’s mourning. It’s love — tangled and raw. It’s the bond between a father and a son, stretched across time, stitched together by prayer and pain.

Sometimes, I feel like I’ve failed already. But then I remember what he endured. The promises he kept. The sacrifices he made that no one ever applauded — and I remind myself: I am not doing this for praise. I am doing this for them. For my mother. For my sister. For the ghost of a man who still lives in the choices I make.

So no — I will not cut my hair.

Not until I have done what I said I would do.
Not until I’ve built something out of this aching, endless silence.
Not until I can stand tall and say, “You can rest now, Dad. I kept my word.”

Until then, this hair will grow — uncut, unyielding, and full of every inch of love I never got the chance to say aloud.