A Balcony, A Taco, and the First Breath of Peace in 9 Years

Tonight, I made wild-caught cod tacos, poured a glass of white wine, and sat outside on my balcony.

That probably sounds small—but for me, it was monumental. It was the first time in over two years that I’ve sat outside at home, eaten something I made with care, and felt safe enough to be still.

For the past nine years, I’ve been stuck in a relentless loop of fight-or-flight. Probate court battles, attorneys gaslighting me, and the lingering ache of losing my mom turned my nervous system into a battleground. My focus has been survival—mentally, legally, emotionally. Not healing. Not joy. Not dinner on the balcony.

But tonight, I chose different.

I walked to Trader Joe’s. I picked the cod because it looked clean, wild, fresh—like the version of me I want back. I seasoned it simply, crisped it in a pan, and added slaw, avocado, and lime on corn tortillas. Then I stepped out onto the balcony with my plate and a chilled glass of wine, and I just... sat.

I listened to birds. I felt the breeze. My dog Scooter sat nearby, quietly present. My mind didn’t race. My stomach wasn’t clenched. My jaw wasn’t locked.

There was no court hearing. No bar complaint. Just me, a plate of tacos, and a moment that said: you’re coming back to yourself.

I didn’t expect tacos to feel like a personal revolution—but they did.

And I want more of that.

So this post is the first in what I hope is a new chapter of Cabomama.com—one where I start to share the healing after the war. I may still post about probate battles (trust me, some people deserve exposure), but I also want to share the moments that stitch my life back together.

If you’re coming out of your own long fight, I hope you’ll take one moment for you. Eat outside. Light a candle. Choose the good fish.

You deserve to breathe again too.

Earlier today, I received an email from Ken Luce — the 86-year-old attorney who has fought for nine years to bury my mom’s will and exhaust me. He says he won’t attend tomorrow’s deposition. He’s rattled. He’s wrong. And he’s finally feeling the pressure I’ve carried for too long. I didn’t send him fear. I sent him a notice. And then I made tacos.

Healing and accountability can co-exist — one breath, one bite, one court order at a time.

– Heather