Lifestyle: In Practice

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 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.

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...

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.