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.

Spanish lives in my hellos and goodbyes, in domino games with my tíos, in memories of piña coladas and mangú. I was the girl who stopped speaking Spanish at five, who traded merengue for iced coffee and skyscrapers, but still sneaks bachata into her cleaning playlists. Between two worlds, I write my rebellion in Spanglish. I am still Dominicana, even when I dream in English.

Women are forced to perform — in pain, in love, in how we exist. We are expected to cry beautifully, to suffer gracefully, to turn heartbreak into something marketable. Our pain becomes performance, our struggle becomes art, and our silence becomes survival. Society doesn’t value women until we’re gone, yet demands we endure everything with poise. “Pain as Performance” is a manifesto on how femininity is packaged, sold, and sanctified through suffering.

Rain in New York smells like wet garbage and melted metal, rising off the pavement in waves of heat and noise. But Dominican rain—ay, that’s different. It’s holy and feral, a slap and a kiss at once. It cools the body, blesses the skin, hums against red clay rooftops like prayer. Kids splash barefoot, unbothered, while the island exhales. There, rain isn’t ruin. It’s reminder. It’s mercy. It’s home.

There is something sacred about doing my hair. For years I fought my curls, straightened and burned them into silence. Now, every wash, mask, and diffuser pass feels like prayer—scrubbing away trauma, sealing in love, and watching my curls rise again. This ritual is more than routine; it’s devotion, survival, and a reclaiming of beauty once shamed. My hair is no longer something to tame—it’s a freedom I bless daily.

Faith betrayed me in the silence of prayer. I begged for my father’s laugh to return, for color to rise back in his face, but nothing changed. The man who once carried me on his shoulders could barely carry himself across the room. Later, faith betrayed me again with my grandmother—once a warrior, now fading, her love stronger than her memory. I learned faith doesn’t always protect the strong; sometimes it strips them away piece by piece.

My body is not a battleground, though it carries scars both visible and hidden. It’s marked by ink, trauma, and survival, yet it remains mine—breathing, enduring, beautiful. Each scar tells a story of pain, resilience, and transformation. What was stolen, broken, and bled into the past now lives as a layered canvas of survival. My body is both ruin and rebirth, a reminder that I kept going, and I chose to keep it mine.

Beautiful things happen when women refuse to behave. When they protest, leave, say no, and choose themselves first, the world shifts. Men are praised for the bare minimum, while women are expected to be mothers, superheroes, caretakers, and silent. Misbehaving is survival—it’s rebellion, autonomy, and choice. When women misbehave, daughters and granddaughters inherit bravery, freedom, and the right to be unapologetically themselves.

By Sofía Villafaña  3Play, a stupid pun of three way, a dumb app that encourages singles to meet with couples as a third. It was also...

by María Del Mal  The first time I said it, it was quiet, a soft plea on my lips, “Stop, I want to stop.” He chuckled. He leaned back...

I wasn’t asking for a fantasy—I just wanted honesty. But when men act like boyfriends and refuse to give you the title, it’s not romance, it’s manipulation. Swift gave me the world, but not his word. This is what I learned: confusion is not chemistry, it’s a red flag waving in your face. I don’t do placeholders anymore. If it’s not clear, it’s cut.

I don’t believe in perfection, I believe in intention. In crying on the bathroom floor with my tits out and God still pulling me into His arms. I believe in girls who hex their exes and still pray for their nieces’ safety. I believe in rage, in contradiction, in horny heartbreak and petty healing. I believe in heaven for the girls who curse and cry and come and still try to do better the next day. God doesn’t want a perfect woman—He wants an honest one. And I’m her.

Yes, I regret having an abortion. Yes, I’d still do it again. I lost something real and loving, but I saved myself. I chose me, my future, my life. And I will never be sorry for that.

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 moaned to survive. I lied to be safe. This isn’t a story about sex—it’s about survival. About what women do to stay alive in a world where men are taught they’re entitled to everything. Even our silence.

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...

After a moment that changed everything, I chose myself. I chose survival. In the quiet of my room, with fear and strength tangled inside me, I let go of a future I couldn’t hold onto. I named her Amelia—to give her a life I couldn’t offer. She’s mine alone, carried in every step forward, in every word I write. This is a story of loss, choice, and the kind of love that births resilience.

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.

Maybe it’s not her I’m searching for,  but the feeling of falling fast and slow  at the same time. Of breaking your heart, as someone’s putting it together.