Covenant

I made this ring while asking one of the hardest questions I know: Can I stay loyal to who I really am, and still belong in this world? Can I stop editing myself to be accepted? Can I stop explaining, and still be loved?

This ring doesn’t answer those questions, but it holds them. It reminds me to live from the center. To stay true to what I know deep down, even when the world doesn’t mirror it. To trust that loving life, and loving myself, might just be enough.

Covenant Ring.
Handmade with fluorite, love, and recycled sterling silver.
Made by commission for Bego.

CECATI 25

When I moved back to Mexico City in my thirties, I was still trying to find my real path. I’d trained as a ceramist, but something in me needed a different kind of fire.

A friend invited me to Taxco, the legendary silver town. We spent hours wandering through jewelry shops, but I left feeling disappointed. Everything looked mass-produced. Where were the artists?

So I came home and started stringing beads. I soon realized I didn’t want to just assemble, I wanted to make things in silver.

That’s when life whispered: look closer. Just a block from my apartment, hidden behind an industrial facade I’d passed a thousand times, was CECATI 25—one of the few jewelry schools in the entire city.

The CECATI system was founded in the 60s to offer technical education to those without access to university. And thanks to ongoing public investment in social programs, it’s still here changing lives. It changed mine.

I signed up for a six-month course, learned the basics… and here I am, 16 years later. Still at the bench, in love with fire and forge.

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Inner Rhythm Series

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In this series, I wanted to honor inner rhythm—the pace our body needs to heal, to remember, and to know. Where feeling is not a flaw, but a form of intelligence.

It will be available tomorrow at 6 pm–Mexico City time–in my online shop.

Each ring can be cut to fit sizes 6 to 11, and once adjusted, you'll still be able to open it about half a size if needed.

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Mineral

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I built this piece layer by layer. I burned it until the surface bubbled and blistered, as if it had spent years underwater—like the green pond of fluorite at its center.

It’s a ring that feels ancient. A reminder that we belong to something older than time.

Mineral Ring.
Handmade with Fluorite and recycled sterling silver.
This week in my online shop.

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What I Protect

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Lately I’ve been listening to stories where someone’s insensitivity ruins everything—a life, the natural environment, even peace itself. It leaves me heartbroken. Can’t they feel the pain of others?

I’ve also been crying a lot: over the harmony that’s been lost, the tenderness that fades, the things that once connected us as human beings. And I’ve been wondering if feeling this much is a weakness, especially as I grow older.

But today I saw something clearly: judging myself for being sensitive only hardens me. And if I keep doing that, I risk becoming the very thing I grieve—someone who ruins beauty, first in myself, then in others.

What I Protect.
Handmade with amber and recycled sterling silver.

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Navigator Ring

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There are days when I lose direction. When that happens, it can take a long time for me to find my way back. Slowly I return to this: a tiny flicker, a spark that feels like yes: to food, to rest, to work or a walk.

That subtle recognition calms me: I’m no longer looking outside for answers or ways of being. I look within to honor my rhythm, my pace, my choices, because only I know what they feel like.

This ring is not a shield, but a compass. A reminder to look inside and align with what is true. That’s the way back home.

Navigator Ring.
Hand built with garnet and recycled sterling silver.

Ember Ring

Now that the rains are back in Mexico City and the sky stays gray, this little garnet glows like an ember on my hand.

A reminder that the sun is still here, even when we can’t see it. That warmth lives in us too, even when we forget.

Ember Ring.
Handbuilt with garnet and recycled sterling silver.

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Cicada

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I love this idea of going underground and then emerging when the time is right. We’ve been told everything must happen fast. That we must adjust quickly—to loss, to change, to new realities. That we should move on, get over it, find new things, better things. But sometimes the body doesn’t want that. It needs stillness. It needs time to re-accommodate inner paradigms. To adapt. To feel safe again.

Being happy again isn’t something I can force. Sitting with change, letting it move through me at its own pace, is not just valuable, it’s necessary and unavoidable.

I’m realizing, at this middle point in my life, that I’m not meant to cover a huge amount of ground. I’m not here to race through experiences. I’m meant to slow down. To take baby steps. To notice the tiny things. Because they are the most precious.

This is the opposite of a conquering heart. It’s an assimilating one. Life has to seep into me. And I must let it. I must pause long enough for it to reach all the parts of me that need tending. Only then can I truly carry it.

Cicada.
Handmade with amethyst and recycled sterling silver.
A piece to honor fertile silence, deep transformation, and the inner timing that can’t be rushed.

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Death in Five Reflections

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A few years ago, I made a small series of whimsical calavera pendants with smooth, polished surfaces. But something felt unfinished. They were missing a kind of weight, a truth. So I brought them back to the fire.

Now, the flame has left its mark, texturing their surface, softening their perfection, and adding depth where there was once only shine. Some necessary darkness to the light.

They’ve lived a little more now. And it shows.

All five will be available this Thursday at 6 pm (Mexico City time), in my online shop.

Death as Truth

In the Mexican tradition, we don’t banish death, we bring her to the table. We give her a face. A calavera. We decorate her and talk to her. We remember her, because the dead are not gone. They live on in memory and also in the shape of who we became because of them. In every person they touched. Every path they opened or closed. In the joy they gave, and the damage too. They are not absent. They are layered into us.

Death reveals the truth of life: nothing lasts, and that’s why it matters. She shows us that meaning isn’t found in clinging, but in continuity. In honoring. In creating something with what was left behind.

Without death, there would be no longing. No poetry. No temples. No art. Death gives depth to life. It sharpens love. It lays the foundation for every truth worth carrying.

And so, we give her a form. A calavera. A face to speak to. Not to fear her, but to remember who we are, and why we’re here.

Death as Reunion

As the strategies I once used to survive—within my family, my culture, my relationships—begin to loosen their grip, something unexpected happens. After the shame and guilt come and go, after the fear of being alone, of hurting or disappointing others begins to dissolve, I find that what’s left is peace. Not ease, exactly—but clarity. A quiet strength. A sense of alignment—not with what others want from me, but with my own nature, my own truth.

I no longer feel the need to adjust myself to fit. I used to flow around people like water, molding myself to the room, the mood, the unspoken expectations. Now I feel more like a container. Not rigid—but held. Contained. Whole.

It has taken enormous courage not to bend. My palms sweat. My nervous system still lights up in protest. But something in me is steady now. Some inner voice, clear and quiet, says: this is who I am. And I trust it enough to keep going.

The self I’ve returned to isn’t new. She’s been here, waiting, beneath the roles and the fear and the noise. And now, at last, we are back together.

Death as Guide

This wasn’t the kind of death anyone else could see. There was no dramatic moment, no funeral, no breaking point. Just a slow, quiet unraveling of the version of me that had held so much for so long—the good one, the loyal one, the one who stayed even when it hurt. I had been the dependable daughter, the accommodating partner. I knew how to give, how to keep the peace, how to disappear just enough to be acceptable. And then, without warning, she began to die.

It didn’t feel like freedom at first. It felt like emptiness. I wasn’t grieving the version of me I’d lost—I was afraid of what would be left without her. Who was I, if not the one who made everything work?

But death came gently. Not as punishment, but as a guide. She said: Let it go. All of it. You don’t need to carry this anymore. And for once, I listened.

What came after wasn’t clarity, it was space. A quieter place inside me, with fewer answers but more truth. I’m still learning who I am without that old armor. But I know this: I’m not lost. I’m just returning to myself.

Death as Continuity

They leave, and we stay, but not unchanged. At first it can feel like absence, like something essential has been taken. But over time, I realize that what they gave us doesn’t disappear, it becomes the ground beneath what we now grow.

Grief reshapes us. The love, the stories, the silent lessons don’t vanish. They settle into us. And somehow, through us, life keeps unfolding.

I used to think continuity meant holding on. Now I understand it’s more about allowing what was to become part of what is. It’s letting their absence become an opening.

That’s how life goes on. Not by erasing the ones who came before, but by carrying them, quietly, in what we choose to make and tend.

Death as Stillness

Everything is unraveling.

Democracy falters. Genocide is live-streamed. The climate collapses. Old systems: patriarchy, capitalism, even monogamy, crack open. There’s mass migration, rising waters, no clear way forward. And in the middle of all that, something in me has stopped trying to fix it. I no longer chase the illusion that it’s all supposed to be different.

What remains, what feels honest now, is stillness. Not the kind that comes from detachment or defeat, but the kind that feels like returning to the earth. To silence. To something much older than panic.

I used to think death was the end: dark, fearsome, final. But now I feel it more like a presence. A constant. A quiet voice that says: Look. This is what’s real. Everything else comes and goes.

And in that stillness, I can finally rest. Not because things are okay, but because I’ve stopped pretending I can outrun what is. Death doesn’t frighten me. She steadies me.

What Pride Month Means to Me

You don’t have to change. You never did.

We are each born unique—not by mistake, but by some deep design.

The real madness was ever believing there’s a “normal” way to be. There isn’t. There never was.

I celebrate Pride to honor existence as it really is: honest, layered, imperfect, radiant.


To those who were told they don’t belong—by family, by faith, by silence:

You do. You belong.


To those still hiding, still carrying shame, still trying to shrink or disappear:

I see you. I’ve been you. And I promise—there is nothing wrong with how you are.


To those who fought to live out loud—and carved space for others to follow:

Bravo. Thank you.


We were never broken.

52

Today I turn 52, and I’ve come a long way.

I’m learning to feel my pain—and the pain of those I love—without needing to fix it.
I can ask for what I need and stay steady, even when others want something else. I’ve stopped believing there’s only one right way to live. Moment by moment, I choose what a good life means to me. And I see myself thrive.

I listen to my body—and I trust it when it asks to rest, to move, or to step away. I’m on my side. I enjoy my own company and give myself the care I once longed for from others.

I listen closely to what I feel, because I experience everything intensely. I now offer myself the same compassion, warmth, and encouragement I used to give only outwardly.

I play again, like I did as a child.
I dance freely, without anyone watching.

I’m proud of the path I’ve walked to offer this friendship to the one who needed it most: me.

If any of this resonates, know you’re not alone.
It’s never too late to come home to yourself.

With love,

J