Lifestyle: In Practice

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.

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.

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.