"I love this song," my mother said as I raised the volume. We were driving in circles at a steady 25 miles an hour. I am 20 years old, and my mother has decided I will not return to college unless I return with my driver's license. So I take us around our neighborhood, practicing.

I still can't parallel park, but who can these days? We're listening to one of my playlists, a strange combination of Mariachi and Taylor Swift, which is what a Mexican American girl listens to when her heart breaks for the first time.

"Don't listen to these songs too much," my mother warns. "They'll only make you sad later." But for the time being, she allows me to sing along to Juanes, Selena, and T. Swift. We stay quiet as I drive. I'm too busy concentrating on the lyrics and the road. I wonder what my mother is thinking as she sits beside me.

I do not feel emotions subtly. Blame it on the depression, maybe. Or blame my emotions on a mother who never felt things quietly, who taught me that our heritage is one of passion and fire, and that no matter what you feel, you must feel vibrantly. My first heartbreak was so vibrant, it burned. It left scorch marks and a burning taste in my mouth. The weight of the emotion made me feel like I would never get out from underneath.

My mother understood. She feels the same way I do: loudly and too much and not enough all at once. "Distract yourself," she told me. That was always her solution. When your emotions get too loud, and all you hear is a ringing in your ear and the faint wails of Juan Gabriel, find something else to drown out the noise. So I did, because after 20 years I have learned that my mother is always right when it comes to anything, but especially emotions.

But driving in silence isn't much of a distraction. You're stuck just thinking about everything that has gone wrong. You're scared to talk because you think if you do, you'll start to cry. The song changes, and again my mother expresses her love for the song. I raise the volume. "Cien Años," by Pedro Infante. From beside me, I hear my mother begin to sing. She has always said she has a terrible voice, but I love it. Quietly, I join in. My throat tightens and I feel the tears welling. But I sing anyway.

Heartbreak is a funny thing. Some days, you feel like you'll never recover, and the next day you'll have forgotten what you were so bothered by. My mother had a lot to say. She had been silently preparing for this moment in each of her children's lives even though she hoped it would never happen.

I expected her to yell and lecture, which is normally how she expresses her Latin affection. And she did, of course; she was quick to point out everything I'd done wrong and everything I should have done. But my Mexican mother did something I was not used to. For a woman who feels and expresses everything brightly and loudly, she was gentle. For the first time since early childhood, my mother let me sit with her and cry.

We keep turning in circles with Señor Infante singing from the radio. We sing along, mourning a lost love. And as my mother and I sing, the weight of my emotions is lifted, just for a moment. In that moment, everything is OK. My emotions are far too much for me sometimes, but in this moment they dissipated.

With my mother beside me and Pedro Infante on the radio, everything is OK.

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