Lifestyle: In Practice

My gold hoops sing louder than my voice when I’m told to be quiet. They clink in church, shimmer on the subway, and carry my mother’s legacy through every loop and shine. Dominican girls don’t do minimalism—we layer colors, fabrics, laughter, and history. Where others see chaos, we see home. I am my island’s treasure, loud and golden, taking up space because that’s what Dominican women were born to do.

In Loving Someone in Spanglish, Grace Sofia explores how love carries memory—songs sung by mothers and abuelas, healing rituals of gargara and VaporRub, recipes passed down through kitchens, and kisses once dodged but now given freely. To love in Spanglish is to weave English and Spanish, New York and the Dominican Republic, childhood and adulthood—tender fragments that reveal care in every gesture.

I recently suffered one of the worst breakups of my life—a friend breakup. After years of support, the rug was pulled out from under me. I had to make my life worth waking up to without part of my support system. I dispose of everything tied to them, donate it to mark the end. I create a playlist, cry, then delete it. I reclaim my space, invest in my future, and go on solo dates. And in writing a goodbye letter, I release the pain and learn from it.

My mom has given me life-saving advice in between flipping tostones and yelling at the TV. Some of it made no damn sense at the time—don’t sleep over anyone’s house porque nunca sabes? I thought she was paranoid. Turns out, she was right. Turns out, my mom saw danger way before I could spell it. Her consejos were layered with fear, love, culture, and survival. Now, as a grown woman walking through this wild world, I carry those words like armor.

There’s something sacred about pushing a red cart down the aisles of Target when your brain feels like a battlefield. For me, these trips aren’t about consumerism — they’re about survival. A new lip gloss, some eucalyptus-scented body wash, a candle I’ll never light — these aren’t luxuries, they’re lifelines. When everything feels too heavy, Target gives me the illusion of control, a ritual of joy, and just enough peace to make it to next week.

I don’t write about a singular wound—I write about a thousand paper cuts that never healed. My stories aren’t just art, they’re survival. I write as rebellion, as therapy, as proof that I’ve lived through every heartbreak, identity crisis, and invisible moment. Writing is where I get to be soft, angry, Dominican, and divine—all at once.

Uniform was optional, getting yelled at wasn’t. Field trips blurred together, but the joy was real—Taki fingers, shared earbuds, cracked bus seats. Then came the pleated skirts, shiny black shoes, and tuition that cost more than some made in a year. This is the story of both—where public school gave me heart, and private school handed me the rules.

I wake up most mornings to the train shaking my windows. My routine isn’t curated—it’s real. I scroll TikTok half-awake, blast bachata in the shower, skip skincare if my curls are being disrespectful. Coffee or Celsius is a must. I dress depending on the season… or my mood. On the train platform, music blaring, I’m still writing in my head—mental notes, imagined scenes, overheard dialogue. That part of me never turns off.

Dear Jay,  Thanksgiving night you were telling me how much you loved me, how thankful you were to have me in your life. The next morning I woke up to text that it wasn’t going to work and had been blocked. That’s the kind of person you are, the kind of person who disappears, who forgets the birthday of the woman he claimed to love, but didn’t forget to text other girls. He always remembered to clean up the broken glass from the mirror he smashed or the parts of the controlle

I’m not overreacting, you’ve just never experienced a Dominican mother’s anger with a chancleta before. The precision in the throw, the sting in the hit. I want to be soft and cared for, but also strong and grounded. I’m not angry, I’m Dominican. I’m not loud, I’m Dominican. This isn’t just rage—it’s memory, it’s inherited fire, it’s love, it’s survival. This is my softness and my rebellion, all in one breath.

What if you could have dinner with the five people who shaped your life? In this reflective review, Grace explores the emotional layers of The Dinner List—a novel that brings together exes, estranged parents, and soul friends at one unforgettable meal. With sharp insights on character dynamics and missed opportunities in structure, this review weighs love, regret, and the complexity of memory.

In this raw and intimate review, Grace Sofia reflects on My Body by Emily Ratajkowski—a collection that explores consent, silence, beauty, and the pain of womanhood. Through stories of early trauma, identity, and the contradictions of female power, this book gives language to the things so many women have lived but never said aloud. It’s haunting, honest, and urgently necessary.

What does it mean to truly translate someone’s story? In this powerful reflection, Grace Sofia explores R.F. Kuang’s Babel and Valeria Luiselli’s Tell Me How It Ends, unpacking the violence, responsibility, and nuance behind language, storytelling, and interpretation. From magic to migration, this piece asks: how do we stay true to meaning when words are never neutral?

Dear Reader,  I read a total of 200 pages worth of A Little Life  before I gave up on this book. It was by far one of the most disgusting, horrifying, and vile things I’ve read.  First and foremost, this book has some NSFW topics that honestly sort of feel like trauma porn. These characters battle through, depression, addictions, poverty, sexual abuse, and so much more. The worst part isn’t the difficult topics, there’s a way they can be done with grace and empathy for real

What makes a paragraph powerful? In this post, Grace Sofia explores Francine Prose’s take on the rhythm and purpose behind each breath of writing. A paragraph, she writes, is more than structure—it’s a build-up, a release, a shift in light. With insight from Reading Like a Writer, this piece offers guidance for writers seeking meaning between the margins, and the freedom to break the rules beautifully.

What makes a sentence beautiful? In this thoughtful post, Grace Sofia explores Francine Prose’s lessons on clarity, rhythm, and revision. From Hemingway’s restraint to the power of reading aloud, she breaks down how good writing comes from intention and sound. Whether you’re revising a short story or crafting your next essay, this piece will change the way you see your own words.

What makes great writing? According to Grace Sofia, it starts with choosing the right word—every time. In this thoughtful breakdown of Francine Prose’s “Words” chapter from Reading Like a Writer, she explores how intentional language shapes meaning, tone, and truth. For writers at any stage, this post is a reminder to slow down, read closely, and revise with purpose.

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