For my ninth birthday, my aunt sent me a leaf. 

Nine-year-old me didn't get it. I wanted a baseball bat, new cleats, or Heat tickets. I was a tomboy, not a leaf lover. An October fall leaf from Vermont was definitely not on my birthday list. I stuffed it somewhere in my drawer. 

I didn't think about that leaf again until I found myself in Vermont this summer. My cousin, Hoban, and I got jobs as dockhands in a marina outside Burlington. The only reason I was able to go is because soccer – my whole “identity’— had been put on a pause after an injury. My grandma lives up there, so she made dinner every night and we had the best conversations. This was the first time I’d been at her table without a zillion cousins and family around. When I stopped to listen to her stories, I learned details about my dad I never knew, like how he begged to go rock jumping even when the weather was rough, which is also something I do. Vermont slowed me down long enough to really hear. 

When I got back to Miami, I searched my junk drawer for the leaf.

I didn’t find it right away. What I found instead was a baseball card I got when I was 4 years old with my picture, stats, and favorite food (pizza). It reminded me of when I grew up playing sports on all-boys teams, where being underestimated just made me play harder.

There was a book my mom gave me when I was in first grade that had 365 days of questions. My brothers and I were required to answer one question a day. They started easy (what is your name?) and got deeper (what would you like to do but can’t yet?). Lucas wrote, “Drive.” I wrote, “Drive. Lucas you tock my anser, so you are mean.” At the time, “drive” meant the ultimate independence. I’ve always looked up to my brothers, but I’m also determined to steer my own way. 

A polaroid of my first club soccer team from 3rd grade was tucked in the back. I took one for the team and played goalie that year but cried after every game. It took weeks before I finally built up the courage to tell my coach I wanted to switch positions. This is the first time I learned it’s being “helpful” doesn’t mean being silent. Soccer not only taught me persistence but also taught me the importance of speaking up. 

I found letters from Ms. G, my 8th grade English teacher, who sends me a birthday card every year—in cursive. Her class was so hard, but it’s where I learned work ethic and why it’s a privilege to learn. It’s where we read Fahrenheit 451, Lord of the Flies, and 1984. Because of her, I love reading and introspection. Although deep down, I'll always be a math girl like my dad. If I had her now, I’m sure she’d be warning us about the danger of relying only on AI. 

I found a guitar pic from when I tried to play Zach Bryan Revival with my uncle for the family reunion. Maybe next year. 

Finally, under it all, I found the leaf. It survived every move, every mess, every chapter I’ve lived through, and I kept it without realizing why. I get it now. The leaf represents the place where my whole Irish-Cuban family created memories. It points me toward a pace of life where I notice the small things. 

The drawer isn’t just clutter; it’s a map of everything that’s shaped me. For a long time, I thought my worth lived in a single stat line, a position, a grade. The drawer says otherwise. Now I see that the best gifts aren’t objects at all, they’re the moments you notice, the people you share them with, and the stories you carry forward. The leaf is still just a leaf, but it’s also a reminder to value what matters most.