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.

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.