Morenasa

At the age of 14, my maternal grandmother told me that when I was born, I was so dark compared to my brother—who was a blonde baby—that my Tia, dad’s sister, started a rumor that my mother had an affair with my father’s Ecuadorian friend, Eddy. My grandmother ended this snapshot by saying, “And then I was so relieved when you got freckles and strands of red hair like your dad, because it proved you were his daughter.”

Last year, my cousins’ father passed away. While going through his belongings, they found photos of us as kids. The timing felt divinely orchestrated, as it coincided with a period when I had begun allowing myself to truly feel the impact of my childhood experiences, memories, and traumas.

Some childhood wounds are so prominent I don’t need to work to remember them. They surface without consent. The more insidious ones lie beneath, constantly threatening my sense of worthiness. Most of the time they rest quietly, unknowingly shaping and influencing my thoughts. But sometimes they grow restless and maladaptive, and I find myself reenacting a scene from my past I don’t remember living.

As a little girl, the messages I received about my worth were often unkind and confusing. My birth caused my mother pain. Even though she says it brought her peace, it actually trapped her in an abusive marriage.

Looking at that photo of us — reminded me of all the things I subconsciously learned as a little girl in our Mexican family that influenced the woman I became. My brother was the güerito—the blond one—and I was the morena-the brown one. I always wished I was lighter like my brother.

My grandpa, who loved me unconditionally, nicknamed me “Morenasa”. He had nicknames for all of us based on our most prominent physical traits. I didn’t mind because he always said it with a smile and greeted me with giant outstretched arms that made me feel safe. He was the only man in my early life I trusted. I think my grandmother resented how much I loved him, and during my teen years filled my head with stories of his infidelity to even her playing field.

I also remember the time when my red-haired, freckled-faced dad yelled at my mom for buying me a red shirt. We had gone shopping with my Tía Rosa, mom's sister, and cousin Letty, and my aunt bought us matching shirts. I was so excited to match with Letty. But when we got home, my dad had a meltdown. He said the shirt made me look even darker than I already was, and he refused to have his daughter looking like a “negra.” My mom returned the shirt.

On both sides, my family was very white. My mom told me the story of her maternal grandmother who refused to take a portrait with her darker-skinned grandchildren. She was a fair, European woman who would only be photographed with her “white” grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder why my mom told me that story.

My abuelita (grandmother), an educated woman with a passion for poetry and flair for oration, once told me she loved me in spite of my skin color because I was smart like her. She explained it like this: in life, you sometimes get bad qualities—in my case, the color of my skin. But then God also gives you gifts. Even though he made me dark, he made me smarter than most, and that was his way of making up for it. My grandmother died praying to her white God.

And then the pendulum swung the other way. My Mexican friends labeled me white, whitewashed, a coconut. People I know and many I don't often ask, “What are you?” 

My mom compared me to a white swan born dusky-brown. I, too, got lighter with age, to her relief.

Maybe I'm just too sensitive and an over thinker. Maybe it’s just a bunch of bullshit. After all, most Mexican kids are teased by their families about their appearance - you just can't take these things personally - is what I'm told.

I do know that the humans that raised me did the very best they could.

I just sometimes wish that as a child when I was a "feelings" sponge without the capacity for reflection or analysis, someone had tended to my heart.

So You Wanna Write

I sat down this morning to edit my book. My goal is to have it published by the end of the year—and today is October 4th. The truth? Writing this week has kicked my ass. Between work and the thousand little things I had to accomplish this week, I’ve chosen sleep over writing.

My intention was to write for at least two hours today and edit a nonfiction piece that’s due Wednesday. But here I am, 1:45 pm, finally sitting down to do it.

Every morning I wake up full of optimism. Today’s the day, I tell myself. I’m refreshed, motivated, ready to dive in. And yet, life always finds a way to creep in—the dishes, the laundry, the chores that “can’t wait.” -  But the truth is, they can.

If I really want to hit my writing goals, I have to create the time—lock it in, protect it, and show up even when I don’t feel like it. Writing doesn’t happen when inspiration strikes. It happens when I sit my ass in the chair and do it anyway.

Because here’s the thing: once I finally sit down, something magical happens. The fog lifts. The ideas start to flow. My characters step forward, eager to be heard. The sentences start connecting, the rhythm returns, and suddenly hours have passed. I remember exactly why I love writing in the first place.

So—you wanna write? Me too. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m tired. Because this struggle, this resistance, it’s part of the process. It’s proof that we care deeply about what we’re doing.

And if you’ve got a project staring you down right now—a task you’ve been avoiding—take a deep breath and begin. Maybe you can’t do it all today, but do something. Even a small start matters.

Try the Swiss Cheese Method:

When I’m stuck, I grab a piece of paper and draw a bunch of circles—like slices of Swiss cheese. In each circle, I write one small task I need to finish for the project. Then I pick the one that feels the least horrible and start there. Once it’s done, I highlight it and move on to the next. Before I know it, I’m working again.

Progress isn’t always linear. Sometimes it’s messy, uneven, full of holes—but it’s still progress.

So here’s to Saturday. Here’s to showing up, doing what you love, and giving yourself grace when it feels impossible. May you find a little time today to do what  you love—and a little time to rest, too.

Sending all of you LOVE!

The Painful Task of Rekindling Dreams

When I was 13, I woke up one morning with a crystal-clear vision: I was born to be a writer. Books were my constant companions, and I spent hours writing short stories, mimicking the voices of my favorite authors like Jean M. Auel.

Then came high school. I discovered journalism, and it was love at first sight. I loved everything about reporting—and later, editing. I knew in my bones this was the path I was meant to follow.

In college, I stumbled into screenwriting. Holy shit—this was my imagination and writing colliding in the most perfect way. I could finally put all those daydreams and mental scenes, complete with dialogue, onto paper.

And then… reality set in. My writing dreams were pushed aside, buried under rent payments and college loans. Writing couldn’t pay the bills. So I traded who I wanted to be for financial survival, and my story took a different turn.

Fast forward 30 years, a marriage, three children—and here I am, asking myself: Am I too old for this dream now?

I know I’m not alone. So many middle-aged women feel this same tug. With children growing up and moving on, we’re left staring at the mirror, asking: Who am I now?

To my surprise—and relief—I’ve discovered that my 50-year-old self is still deeply connected to my 13-year-old self. She’s still here. I am her, she is me. Only now, I carry decades of experience, pain, love, and resilience that she could never have imagined.

I find myself sitting on a fence. On one side is the comfortable, safe life I’ve built with my husband and kids. We have a great life - I am grateful. On the other side is the scary unknown—my writing. It’s challenging, mysterious, and terrifying. To write honestly requires vulnerability, and that scares me to my core. Some people will support me. Others won’t. Most probably won’t care at all, so that’s kinda good news - right?

And then I realize—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I write my truth. That I hold space for myself, and for others who need it. It’s not my job to control how my words are received. It is my job to honor the writer I was born to be.

I am doing this for me.

I am doing this for my kids—because how can I tell them to chase their dreams if I abandon mine?

I am doing this for all the little brown girls whose voices are still whispers. I see you. Your ideas matter. Speak up.

And I dedicate this to my middle-aged friends who put their dreams on hold for family. What was your dream? Tell me. Let’s walk this path together, side by side, leaning on each other when we need help moving forward.

We can do it. I know we can.