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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.