I learned about this study when I came across two separate articles that referenced it.

First, I read about how Shayla Love spent a week collecting audio recordings from her own life and wrote about it for The New Yorker. Then, for The Atlantic, Olga Khazan theorizes that we’re using fewer words because of increased isolation and the rise of digital communication.

I’m a podcast producer and host. Words are my life. I couldn’t quantify if I’m actually using fewer words than I was several years ago, but I do spend a lot of time working alone. Despite that, I’ve found a way to use more words and connect about the mundanity of daily life. Admittedly this solution is still tied to a device, but maybe that’s the middle ground in the digital world we’re all living in. My solution? Send a voice memo to your friends. I send them to most of mine, but my best friend, Jackie, receives the unfiltered ones. Everyone needs that one friend.

Most mornings, I wait until 9am to send Jackie the first of many voice memos of the day. On the days I’m bursting to tell her something, I send a voice memo, with a follow-up text that reads: Not urgent. Listen later. I’ve heard people say memos are a Gen-Z thing, but voice memos are very Latin American. I will not be explaining further.

You might be thinking, what are you even saying in these voice memos?!

A non-exhaustive list:

• My most unhinged rants, acceptable for her ears only.

• A summary of the podcast I just listened to and why I loved it. Or hated it.

• Something I read that I found hilarious.

• A silly grievance like, why does this coffee shop NOT have drip coffee?

• Something that’s plaguing me (i.e., what to make for dinner).

• Most importantly: a creative brain dump.

Now you might be wondering, okay, but does she reply? And do you ever get annoyed?

That is the beauty of the voice memos. There’s less pressure to reply immediately.

It’s easy to become siloed and spend a lot of time not talking.

As an entrepreneur with a creative job, I have a lot of thoughts to share. Sometimes I need extra accountability and the voice memos with my most trusted friend is one way to carry me through the daily tasks. Working things out verbally, in real time is a great way to problem solve and get clarity.

This study reminded me of the importance of being intentional about the conversations we’re having, who we’re having them with, in-person or via voice memo. Not every message I send is going to be groundbreaking or memorable. Maybe it is a little boring and about my grocery list. Or maybe I’m working out a creative block. Either way, that voice memo exchange is exciting to receive. Way better than a text, devoid of context, intonation, or storytelling.

In Khazan’s piece, she talks to Valeria Pfeifer, one of the psychologists who conducted the study. Pfeifer says that talking requires our working memory to retain both sides of the conversation. Something we don’t concern ourselves with when texting or ordering from a mobile app.

We can order almost anything from our smartphones. Most errands can be outsourced now. Be it food or grocery delivery. If we choose to, we can spend very little time interacting with each other. That also means, we can choose to spend more time conversing with one another.

A necessary disclaimer, I don’t think you should be sending all your close friends endless voice memos, but I do think everyone should have that one person they can be unfiltered with.

Since we are collectively using fewer words a day than ever before, I think conversations are a necessary lifeline. Call your friend, send the voice memo, skip the mobile ordering and talk to each other. We’re all we have.

Sources:

Sliding Into Silence? We Are Speaking 300 Daily Words Fewer Every Year. Study by Valeria A. Pfeifer and Matthias R. Mehl

Another Symptom Of Growing Isolation by Olga Khazan

What Scientists Learned by Eavesdropping on Thousands of People by Shayla Love

The adage goes like this, when you work for yourself, you’re never really off. This is so accurate, especially when you’re supposed to be “out of office”. There’s also the unattributed proverb, when you love what you do, you never work a day in your life. This is hustle propaganda that I refuse to endorse. Even if you love what you do, burn out is too real and celebrated too much.

Theoretically, as a self-employed person, you can take off as much time as you want! But, does that ever really happen? With deadlines looming and endless task lists, taking time off can feel burdensome. Most times, I spend hours before a trip, still packing, slightly panicking, and convincing myself that it’s completely fine to leave my laptop behind.

My husband and I traveled to Mérida, Yucatán, México. Our itinerary was a gentle balance of sleeping in, touring Uxmal, visiting cenotes and beaches, and eating as much cochinita pibil as possible. We strolled the plazas, ate paletas de guayaba, sweated profusely–Mérida is extremely humid!

The last night of this trip fell on a Sunday. By evening, the streets were quiet, businesses closed early, and with impending rain, a calm energy filled the street. We landed at a restaurant surrounded by Parque de Santa Lucia, a spot known for hosting weekly live music since the 60s. The previous night, this same area was bustling with people, vendors selling Marquestias, and local artisans displaying their crafts. But on this night, it was nearly empty, with just a handful of people strolling by. And of course, the 10-piece Salsa band.

I ordered a glass of wine and the first song the band played is one of my favorites, El Gran Combo’s, “Un verano en Nueva York”. I smiled, thinking how much I love this song and how I also need to experience the thrill of a New York summer someday. My husband joyously tapped to the beat. I looked over to my left and suddenly a woman appeared. She wasn’t there a few minutes prior, but she must have been drawn to the music. She began swaying her hips, finding the beat, moving her shoulders, and dancing like no one’s watching. But I’m watching. I can’t help but be mesmerized by how free she looks.

Suddenly it’s pouring rain but now there are more people in the plaza. Unfazedhy by the rain, a few women find their way to the center of the plaza and dance along. Others are off to the side, moving along, but sheltered by the building. I focus on the women dancing in front of the salsa band, not caring that they get wet. After all, a little rain never hurt nobody.

The almost 5-minute song concludes, everyone claps, and it feels auspicious that we stumbled upon this restaurant.

The ambiente persuades me to order a second glass of wine. I want to stay as long as I can to enjoy the live salsa music and admire the women dancing. But the crowd clears. Next up the band plays Bad Bunny’s, “Baile Inolvidable”, which I take as a sign from the universe to get up and dance. Enough people watching, ahora me toca a mi. It’s only me at the center of the plaza, directly in front of the band. No pasa nada, don’t be shy. I let the music fill me up. I feel the rain on my warm skin. I sing along to one of my favorite songs and do my little pasitos. In this moment I think, this is what joy feels like. I look over and the same woman from before is dancing so freely. I hope she thinks the same about me.

When we walk back to our hotel, my husband says, “Isn’t it so wild that we’re never going to see those people again? Our server, the woman dancing, the band.” And he’s right, which makes this night feel a little melancholic. And so representative of how vast the world and our experiences can be.

I’ll never regret the time off. The trips booked. The money spent. The image I have of the dancing in the plaza, with the people I’ll never see again, in a city I hope to return to, will carry my spirit forward for some time.

find poetry in the routine—

I prepare oatmeal every morning,

brew coffee, just a splash of cream.

Apply lipstick.

Curl my hair.

I kiss my dog goodbye and say,

See you later, papa.

Carry a book in my purse.

I know I won’t read it.

Overthink.

Sit in traffic.

Kiss my lover goodnight.

Rest. Dream.

Find poetry in the mundane.

Find blessings in an ordinary day.

I write a poem that’s not a poem

and think,

a bad poem is still a poem.

I’m glad I wrote it anyway.

After sitting at a desk for hours, the movement feels good, even if I did drag my feet out the door. Thirty minutes ago, the sun was peeking through my window, welcoming me to come out and play. I could keep working or I could close my laptop and run outside. Do I want to lay on my couch and watch a show instead? Absolutely. Should I work another hour instead? Maybe.

But after staring at multiple screens, I figure a run outside will help me shake off the day. It wasn’t always like this though. Before the pandemic, I was the queen of muy booked, muy busy. I worked a full-time job, worked on my podcast basically full-time, went to weekly creative events in Downtown and the Westside, and somehow had a social life too! That was 20-something-year-old stamina.

When the pandemic hit, I was deemed an essential worker by way of working in healthcare and like many people, my world was flipped upside down. I stopped being overbooked and busy and was forced to reflect on everything. I paid close attention to my personal goals. I realized I had none. All my personal goals were professional/career goals, which was amazing. I was entering my late 20s and I was ambitious. I was hungry to create and determined to build something, but when I zoomed out and looked at my life, I noticed something was missing.

I wasn’t consciously setting any time for myself, I had few personal goals and I saw an opportunity to grow. In 2021, I set out to run my first half-marathon. At that point, I had run cross country in high school, but my races never exceeded beyond a 5k. That year I started running more, increased my mileage too quickly (rookie mistake), nursed an injury, then started training again! Since 2021, I’ve run 12 half-marathon, 4 marathons, and countless 5ks. I’m somewhat of an athlete now! Who would have thought? Not my younger-self, that’s for sure. Through running, I’ve built a community of fellow runners; one’s I’ve met at races, run clubs, or through social media. An incredible bonus if you ask me. I’ve also learned how mentally and physically strong I am. While running, I work through creative blocks, I problem solve. Running sparks new ideas. I consider it to be part of my creative process too.

Now, I treat movement as my daily non-negotiable. As a creative and a work-from-home entrepreneur, I treat this time as sacred because it gets me outside and into my community.

I want to mange it all: the projects, the bills, the household. But after all of that, is there anything left for me? My creative career quickly became my entire world. Every projects holds a fiber of my being. This year I learned how quickly a creative endeavour could fall aparr. After months of my biggest project and income being stalled, I had to expand. Not just my income, but the way I live my life. I’m seeking more creative projects, more connection, and more movement. I have to look in the mirror and ask myself, who are you beyond your work?

I’m on a quest to figure that out. The time I spend logging miles outside and in community with others brings me closer to the entire person I am; not just the creative or the entrepreneur, but closer to the woman who’s moving forward, literally

.

I’ve been a full-time creative and entrepreneur ever since. These last three years have been full of excruciating growing pains. I don’t have it all figured and I’m still evolving. I want to share what I’ve learned with you over the course of these years and everything I’m still trying to get right. I never imagined I’d be an entrepreneur. I fell into entrepreneurship when my creative project took off. I quickly realized the overlap between being an artist and running a business. As a working creative, I could no longer afford to focus on the creative output and project, I had to focus on growing multiple revenue streams, strategize growth through fiscal quarters, and even apply for business loans.

Many creative women work in silos. The path can be lonely, especially during stressful periods. It’s easier to keep the struggle quiet than reveal how hard things really are. I’m grateful to have a creative partnership, where we share the stress load. When one of us is scared and doubtful, the other steps up to assure that it will all work out. And it usually does. Last year, I really leaned on my best friend Jackie, who comes from an entrepreneurial family and has been growing her business longer than I have. She’s helped me find a schedule that works for me and has coached me through business growth.

The start of 2026 was brutal. The money dried up and the next gig was months away. I was longing for a 9-5 job with a stable paycheck. This pivotal moment pushed me (and my biz partner) to figure it out. There was no avoiding the work, we had to work through it. Some of the dust has settled, the gigs are back, and Spring is here, which is why I dreamt up this weekly newsletter.

Since launching this Substack one year ago, I’ve rebranded, written sporadically, published when inspired, but haven’t committed to a weekly format. I was waiting to “feel inspired”, which is not an effective writing practice. I still plan on writing cultural commentary and eventually launching an interview series. More on that later!

This is not a space for perfection or to boast how I’ve fully optimized my business. Instead, I want to share the trial and error, what I’ve had to let go of, and what’s currently working.

What’s Working Lately:

I have 4-5 projects that I’m working on. There’s overlap, but they each require something different from me. Before, I would work on a little bit of everything daily, leading me to believe there wasn’t enough time to do everything. Now, I batch the work by day and in way that make more sense thematically and more importantly, energetically.

• I group podcast production, research and writing together. I’m currently in podcast production for two podcasts. One of those podcasts requires a lot more time because it’s a different writing style. It’s also a new project so it requires heavy lifting right now.

• I run two distinctive digital communities on Patreon. My book club, Locas Por Libros and a community for podcasters called Locatora Studios. Each group has separate needs, but they both require content moderation and engagement. I also work on social media managing and community engagement during this block.

• This is new for me, but I’m adding a weekly Substack writing block AND content creation block. This is now a non-negotiable. I used to treat this as flexible items on my calendar. If I pushed these blocks or cancelled them to work on something else, there were no consequences. But actually, writing for Substack is how I dedicate time for a solo writing practice. And creating content for socials is how new clients or podcast listeners will find me. I cannot treat these as unimportant tasks.

• I also have a “In my business” day. This is what my friend Jackie calls it. Essentially, it’s the time you spend moving the needle. For me, that means finding new clients, pitching new projects, and growing the actual business. This is where I focus on the side of my business I can control and grow!

• Finally, there’s actual podcast recording that needs to get done! That’s scheduled for the end of the week and takes half my day. I leave the rest of my day open to finish any pending tasks or take the day off if I’m feeling depleted. Podcast producing and hosting is a high energetic output and sometimes I need to recover! Fellow introverts, you KNOW what I mean.

This schedule has been working for me for the last three weeks. I find myself producing more and actually feeling “productive” at the end of the week. Not like I’m playing catch up! Ideally, I’ll stick to this schedule 80% of the week, but any creative entrepreneur knows that things come up during the week! You might get asked to speak on a panel, join a meeting, and/or new projects come up.

If you made it this far, know that I’m still figuring this out and will never pretend to know it all. I’m rooting for myself and my business this year! And I’m rooting for you too.

I go through a lot of trouble to not reach for my phone first thing in the morning. I used to habitually open the Instagram app, but now I use an app-blocker. Allegedly, scrolling first thing in the morning isn’t good for our brains. I remind myself of that when I reach for my phone. There will be time to doomscroll later. I justify this behavior by saying, I work in media. I have to be online.

All week I’ve felt heightened existential dread, vacillating rage and hopelessness, and the cognitive dissonance of having to continue on “as usual.” It’s the middle of January 2026, a time where I usually soak up the infectious renewed energy of a fresh calendar year. This time, I look around and think, none of this is normal.

While scrolling through social media, I see an image of a street vendor who was detained by immigration enforcement. The photo shows a rainbow umbrella covering two people selling tamales and champurrado. I notice a Jack-in-the-box in the background and immediately recognize its location. Garfield Avenue and Whittier Boulevard, along the imaginary border between East Los Angeles and Montebello. This intersection is on my running route. This recognizable street is one I’ve run down hundreds of times. I feel a heaviness in my chest, but I repost the image and again, think, this is not normal.

What happens next?

I exit the app and continue answering emails. My best friend comes over to co-work. We walked to the corner to buy a coffee.

A video of a landscaper in Downey who was almost detained by immigration enforcement, but was released after bystander intervention circulates on my timeline. The street looks familiar.

I send more emails.

Coverage from protests in Minnesota fills my algorithm. I feel my chest tighten.

I cook dinner.

I read opinion pieces, think pieces, and commentators weighing in on the political turmoil.

I have dinner with my family.

My day-to-day life remains the same, but the world around me feels more unstable.

The systems around us are collapsing.

I worry about my Spanish-speaking elders.

I worry about those I love who are undocumented.

I pray for the protection of protestors.

I dream of liberation. From Los Angeles to Minnesota, to Venezuela and Palestine.

This is not normal, yet there’s an expectation to clock-in to work, to send emails, to show up for Zoom meetings, to continue like everything is normal. Somatically, I feel it. Nothing is normal.

I try to ground myself in hope, in community, and in art.

I cling to this Toni Morrison quote, “There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”

I tell my friends I love them. I hug my mother and wish her good morning. I kiss my partner goodbye before he leaves for work. I find pockets of love around me.

I listen to Victor Jarra, Susana Bacca, iLe, Ana Tijoux, and Bad Bunny.

I read Eduardo Galeano. I read Hanif Abdurraquib. I read James Baldwin, Audre Lorde, and some fiction for good measure.

I remind myself that my ancestors survived and that’s why I’m here.

But still–this is not normal.

May I always remember that this is not normal.

Mutual Aid Resources for Minnesota:

Mutual Aid Map

Comprehensive Mutual Aid List

Resources for Los Angeles:

Rapid Response Phone Numbers

Distribute Know Your Rights Cards

Adopt A Day Labor Corner

How To Film Ice Detentions Safely

My grandfather hated the Los Angeles Dodgers. My abuelito, Jesus, was a stoic, religious man, from Nuevo Leon, Coahuila. He loved to drink a copita de ron, he loved to prank his grandkids, and he loved to watch baseball on television. But he had one rule– he refused to watch the Dodgers. Never on television and absolutely never in person. My abuelito was stubborn, held strong convictions, but I don’t recall him ever loathing or hating anything –except for the Los Angeles Dodgers.

My abuelito died when I was 16 years old. Before I had the wisdom to ask him anything substantive –about his life in Mexico, his work as a bracero, or why he settled our family in Los Angeles. I’ve lived the majority of my life piecing together memories and family history.

As the self-proclaimed family archivist, so much of my grandfather’s life feels like family lore passed down through oral tradition. He is not here to answer these questions, which makes him feel somewhat mythic. He lives in our memories, our bloodline, and through stories.

On May 8, 1959, the residents/community members of Palo Verde, La Loma, and Bishop, widely recognized now as Chavez Ravine, were forcefully displaced from their homes. The City of LA used eminent domain to justify the removal of this community because this land was to be used for proposed public housing. The public housing was never built and the remaining families residing in Palo Verde, La Loma, and Bishop, were forcefully evicted to make way for the construction of Dodger Stadium. This day is known as Black Friday.

The communities of Palo Verde, La Loma, and Bishop were a thriving community. The descendants of the original families run a nonprofit called Buried Under The Blue. Their mission is to document and preserve the forgotten history of the three communities.

In 1959, my grandfather was 37 years old, old enough to be aware of political happenings and injustices. In 1959, my grandfather, along with my grandmother and their children, migrated to Dell City, Texas, a farming community. They weren’t in Los Angeles yet, so how did my grandfather hear about La Loma, Palo Verde, and Bishop? I dug through Spanish-language newspaper archives, like La Prensa, but not all of the archive is digitized. That research led me nowhere. I asked my madrina, the eldest of the daughters, and she couldn’t pinpoint why he despised the baseball team. The youngest of the five daughters, my mother, recalls distinctly that he despised the Dodgers because of the violent displacement of the families. Maybe he learned about Black Friday once he was in Los Angeles? Maybe someone mentioned it in passing?

In my imagination, my abuelito is at work when a co-worker or a friend tells him about the displacement and vows to never support the Dodgers. This is the same man who left the Catholic church because a priest snitched on a church-goer, but that’s a story for another day. He held his convictions closely.

The Dodgers’ arrival to Los Angeles has its own historical legacy and trauma, especially for the displaced families of Palo Verde, La Loma, and Bishop. For years, some Latino and Chicano fans have had to reconcile the corporation’s past with the loyalty for their team. This conversation circulates online every so often. This same conversation has been covered by many news outlets, podcasts, and public radio segments. It’s clear, some fans don’t know about the displacement, others don’t care, deflecting to “It was a long time ago.”

Sometime in the mid 2000s, my prima, Christy was visiting LA, and bought Dodger tickets for the entire family, including my grandfather. It was a surprise, a treat, a way to spend time together! He should be happy, right? Wrong. My abuelito had a sour face the entire time. He did not enjoy the game and he expressed repeatedly, “no me gustan los Dodgers.” I felt bad for my cousin, Christy. She bought the tickets and was so excited to take our grandfather to a game, but he couldn’t hide his contempt. Looking back, I see a man who was principled and would not be swayed. I must have been between the ages of 12-14, and now when I look back on this day I want to kick myself. Why didn’t I ask him, “y por qué no?”

I’ve been thinking about my grandfather a lot, since the onset of the ICE raids in Los Angeles and nationwide. He was the reason my family immigrated to the United States. My grandfather worked for a foreman, who fixed not only my grandfather’s papers, but my grandmother’s and their children. An immense privilege, not afforded to many. A privilege that determined their rights and eventually mine. Given this family history, I can’t fathom how some in our community forget that having citizenship does not make you morally superior. This was luck. My grandfather worked for someone who was willing to sponsor him, his wife and five children. I wonder what my grandfather would think of the blatant racial profiling our communities are enduring. I think of how our elders and monolingual Spanish speakers are actively being targeted.

This past summer, The Supreme Court deemed it legal for ICE agents to racially profile, a ruling that’s still unsettling. This is not the first time our communities have been targeted, but with the advent of mobile journalists, grassroots journalists, and social media, documentation of these ICE raids are being shared in a distinct and rapid way. It’s impossible to look away. In times of crisis, it’s easy to feel helpless and disempowered, so we direct our energy to material efforts. We attend a rally or protest, we participate in rapid response, patrol our neighborhoods, and boycott corporations who don’t share our values. Like the Los Angeles Dodgers.

This summer in LA was tense. The National Guard was here. Masked ICE agents were terrorizing our communities all over the city of LA and LA county. Naturally, we’re looking at our elected officials, our community leaders, and even corporations to see where they stand. Are you going to walk the talk when the Latino community is being targeted? Are you going to stand behind not just Latinos but all immigrants being targeted by these discriminant raids? Latinos make up about 48% of Los Angeles County and 40% of the Dodger’s fanbase.

Whether it was due to public pressure or not, the Dodger corporation pledged 1 million dollars “toward direct financial assistance for families of immigrants impacted by recent events in the region.” No mention of ICE or CBP.

What do we expect from a corporation with a contentious arrival in Los Angeles? What else has to happen for fans to boycott their beloved team? I understand Latinos feel a deep kinship and loyalty to the Dodgers. My brothers are Dodger and Raiders fans (talk about loyalty.) As first-gen, second-gen, and so-on Latinos, I understand the need to belong to a community, to feel connected, which is why it’s no surprise to me that the Latino community in Los Angeles feel a pull to Los Doyers, dating back to Fernandomania.

Today the Dodgers play against the Toronto Blue Jays in the 2025 World Series. I’ve seen so much media coverage of the moral conflict Latino Dodger fans are feeling right now. The personal essays and reported pieces are all over my feed. I get it. Many of us are grappling with what it means to be Latino in this country and examining where our loyalties lie. To cheer or not to cheer? For some, it’s complicated. For others, it’s not.

Local business, Distrito Catorce, located in the heart of Boyle Heights, commissioned artist, Sergio Robleto to create a mural of Fernando Valenzuela, alongside Sandy Koufax, and Jaime Jarrín in 2021. This past October, Distrito Catorce had the same artist paint over the mural. Instead,the new artwork depicts Fernando Valenzuela being detained by an ICE Agent. The message reads, “I love the Dodgers, but I love my community more.”

Standing against a corporation or beloved sports team is not about virtual signaling or deferring to “capitalism is bad”, “every corporation is corrupt”, but reflecting on what truly matters. The individuals who make up our community are more valuable than any corporation or fandom. My abuelito might tell you it’s an easy choice to make.

Bonus: If you’re interested in hearing directly from the descendants of the communities of Palo Verde, La Loma, and Bishop, I produced a podcast episode for La County’s Human Rights Commission, called “Dodger Blues.” Listen here.

Nine years ago, I was a fresh college grad, a sexual assault survivor struggling with anxiety and depression, newly single, and abruptly laid off from my first “big girl” job. Nine years ago, I booked my first therapy session. I’m still working with the same therapist. This translates to her knowing all of my family dynamics, my trauma history, my constant burnout–and thankfully, also, bear witness to my evolution and growth. When I shared my lingering questions about ADHD, she believed I was onto something. We broke up the 6-hour assessment into four separate sessions.

Weeks later, she confirmed the diagnosis.

It wasn’t just my anxiety that led me to believe I have ADHD, but also my heavy reliance on systems to structure my life: planners, calendars, time blocking, the pomodoro method, color coding, etc. I started to examine different areas of my life through the lens of ADHD, like my intense workout regimen to just feel “ok”. The existential dread. The task avoidance, like scheduling doctors appointments, calling the bank, sorting through mail. Intense perfectionism. The constant burnout. My moodiness. My indecisiveness, which I always attributed to being a Libra.

The diagnosis made me realize why writing, something I supposedly love to do, felt so dreadful. For the past two years, I’ve tried to cement a writing practice into my routine. If my brain thrives under systems and schedules, why not schedule writing time? Believe me, I tried that. I’d avoid it, work on something else, “miss” the writing block, feel guilty, feel shame. Repeat process. No wonder I can’t get myself to write. Writing feels like a high stakes activity, where I’m exposed and open for critique.

It also puts my entire academic life into a new perspective. I was a “high achieving” student, who carried the weight of my father’s expectations on my shoulders from middle school to high school. I was a pressure cooker waiting to explode. If I didn’t get straight As (the only acceptable report card in my house) in middle school, then I wouldn’t be accepted into a good Catholic high school. If I didn’t go to a good high school, then I wouldn’t get into a good university, which meant all of my parents’ sacrifices were wasted. You can see why this cycle was harmful for a child, right? Add first gen, Latina daughter to the equation, and it explains why this line of thinking felt normal. I was not the only one feeling the high stakes.

I was a good Catholic school girl who followed the rules, but who also buckled under the pressure of being perfect. On paper, I was excelling, but the internal turmoil cost me my sanity.

During undergrad, I’d overload my schedule with courses and drop them when I was certain I’d no longer get an A. If I wasn’t going to get an A, why “ruin” my GPA? I now wonder, what kind of student could I have been, if I had been diagnosed with ADHD? Would I have requested accommodations?

From 2022 to 20223, I worked a full-time job, enrolled in a full-time graduate program, and ran my podcast business. Aware of all that I was juggling, my instructors graciously offered me extensions. They checked in with me often and offered encouragement. These informal accommodations made grad school possible. My schedule was meticulously planned by the hour, so that I didn’t let anything fall during my 11-month program. I rarely missed class, always did my assignments, and completed my thesis. After graduation, I crashed. Without the schedule or the external pressure, the facade was over. I was burnt out. For months, I struggled to get out of bed. I watched a lot of television, like Gilmore Girls and The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I suffered silently because I had “made it.”

In the span of one year, I signed a multi-year network deal, married my partner of seven years, and graduated with a Master’s degree. All before turning 30-years-old. In the deep throws of depression, I wondered what was even left? Was it ADHD all along?

I told my therapist, “I don’t want to make ADHD my whole personality.” To which she replied, “It’s literally your brain.” Two months post-diagnosis, I understand what she means. How can I separate my personality, my viewpoints, my way of critical thinking, my way of learning from the brain?

I’m barely beginning to understand the depth of my diagnosis. I’m processing how it’s been present all along, I’ve just been really good at hiding my tumultuous inner world. Internalizing beliefs like “calladaita te vez más bonita” and “girls are more mature” restricted me from feeling and expressing big emotions for years.

I feel solidarity with the many 30-something women who are barely receiving their diagnosis. Girls are often under-diagnosed or misdiagnosed, which leads to later in life diagnosis. I’ve learned that girls are able to mask their systems, often because of gender socialization and cultural norms. Without these women sharing their stories online and without my best friend sharing her diagnosis with me, I’d still be in a haze, wondering why I’m having a meltdown because I can’t decide what to have for lunch.

Dear reader — I already know the answer to that.

You may be reading this and thinking, ok, girl! Just do it already!!!

I wish it was that simple. Being a writer is not a glamorous job, but we romanticize it to no end. From the Carrie Bradshaw memes to Thought Daughter content, there’s an insistence that writer and thinker is an entire identity and persona. And in so many ways it is.

Maybe that’s why writing is always at the bottom of my to-do list. I’m sick of performing writer and need to just be a writer. Just write, girl. I know.

I’m also so much more than writer. I sit at the intersections of journalist, cultural commentator, podcast producer, and entrepreneur. My mind is often running with countless projects, deadlines and ideas.

I love to ideate, I tell my closest friend.

I love to ideate, but I can’t sit down to write the thing I say I want to write. The writing feels so much bigger than me sometimes. There’s something in my brain that tells me, if you don’t write it when you say you’re going to, don’t bother doing it at all. When did I makeup that rule for myself? And why do I trick myself into believing that.

I recognize I need a better system than adding “write” to my to-do list. I need a writing circle. I need to body double with someone. I need to work through this task avoidance. I know the act of writing is not a task, but my brain believes it’s a task that’s going to humiliate me if I don’t do it perfectly.

It’s exhausting living this way, which is why I’m writing this on my Notes app during a flight to México. While my husband and I, drove to the airport at 4am, the idea for this essay came to me—to write about not writing.

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. The delirium that comes en la madrugada. My heavy heart, after experiencing another loss. Or that my spirit knows healing awaits me en la madre patria. Either way, I welcome the writing. To truly reject perfectionism, means allowing myself to write this from the fourth row of an airplane. Not waiting to be sitting at my desk or waiting to write at a cute little coffee shop in Guanajuato. Romanticization and perfectionism are holding hands and taunting me.

I read a 2008 essay by novelist Haruki Murakami, in The New Yorker, and he wrote, “Writers who are blessed with inborn talent can write easily, no matter what they do or don't do. Like water from a natural spring, the sentences just well up, and with little or no effort these writers can complete a work. Unfortunately, I don't fall into that category. I have to pound away at a rock with a chisel and dig out a deep hole before I can locate the source of my creativity.”

I’m mostly the latter. I’m the writer who needs to chisel away at a rock just to locate the will to write. But today, I’m the writer who’s letting her thoughts spill over.

My writing practice is still a work-in-progress. And while I may not be sitting down to write everyday, I still read voraciously. I read novels, essays, and articles. I enthusiastically receive and read articles from my favorite journalist group chat. I listen to three podcasts (minimum) a day. I co-write a newsletter for my podcast. I write scripts and outlines for the podcast.

I know one day soon, I’ll fully understand why writing is simultaneously my favorite and least favorite thing to do. Until then, I invite this creative energy to stay with me for a while.

Oliver was 15-years-old and in some ways, this loss was anticipated. We’ve had discussions about his declining health, his naps which grew longer and longer, but most importantly – how special he was.

On September 4th, 2016 (Beyonce’s birthday), I received a Facetime call from my cousin, Jonathan. Driving through Highland Park, he spotted a scraggly dog on a street corner. With equal excitement and worry he said, “There’s a dog on the road and he’s really cute. I’m afraid he’s going to get hit by a car!” Without hesitation, I said “Bring him home! My mom will be fine with it.”

Over the years, our family home became an oasis for stray animals. Oliver was not the first dog we rescued from the street. He was the third dog we picked up. Jonathan and my mom bathed him multiple times. Each time, struggling with his matted and dirty hair. Afterward, Jonathan looked to see if he was microchipped and he wasn’t. There was no question or doubt, he was ours.

With no information about this dog, we guessed his age, questioned whether he had gotten lost, and created scenarios about his previous life. When the vet informed us that Oliver was actually 7 or 8 years old, we were shocked but nonetheless resolved to make him a part of the family.

He settled into our little pack with ease. He was a little grumpy and vocal, and he looked like Sprocket, a character from the 1980s cartoon Fraggle Rock.

We guessed he was a terrier mixed with a poodle and maybe a big dog. His paws were big, his ears long and floppy, and one of his eyes was merle. His stare was penetrating. He was often jealous when the other dogs received affection. He looked like a little kid who was picked last, even though we always included him. He had a delicate nature and bonded mainly with people, not dogs.

On Saturday morning, Jonathan picked up Oliver for his monthly grooming appointment. Before they walked out the door, I grabbed Oliver’s face, kissed him, and said, “Bye Ollie. See you later.”

Minutes later, I received a frantic call from Jonathan. Something happened. Something was wrong. I grabbed my car keys, yelled for my mom, and ran out the door. What happens next is a blur. Jonathan is holding Oliver, he climbs into the passenger seat, and we’re off. I feigned calmness as I drove down the 605 to a local animal hospital. The cruel reality was staring at us, but we couldn’t see it yet. We hoped and we prayed Oliver would recover.

The next 48 hours were draining, but especially for Jonathan, who was glued to Oliver’s side. We took turns talking to Oliver, kissing him, petting him, and hoping our grumpy little guy would bounce back. By Monday morning, we faced the hard truth: this could be the end. By the afternoon, Oliver was gone. We held him, we kissed him some more, and reminded him how special he is.

In the days that followed, we each sat with our grief differently. I threw myself into work, but gave myself the space to feel the grief in the mornings and at night. Our little pets become so embedded in our daily routines, that the space feels large and the silence is loud without them. My friends dropped off flowers. My friends checked-in daily. I allowed myself to feel the grief.

Every dog owner makes an unspoken contract with their pet. This contract entails loving each other infinitely, with the understanding that your time together is finite. Each loss has taught me how profound grief is. Our culture may limit who we’re allowed to publicly grieve, but grieving silently is hard on the spirit. Each time we share our grief with others, it gets a little bit lighter.

I hope in every universe, I’m reunited with my pets.

My therapist recently asked me, “Who are you outside of work?” And I had no answer for her. 

I’m a full-time creative and business owner. My work is intrinsically tied to my identity as an artist and as a person. In 2016, I launched a podcast called Locatora Radio with my homegirl, Mala Muñoz and it took off. It’s remained small enough that our tiny team can manage it, but big enough to be profitable. In the last nine years, I successfully turned my passion project into a business. 

Since launching Locatora Radio, I held down multiple jobs. When we started, I was a community organizer, then an executive assistant for several years, and later a communications manager. In 2023, I made the jump to full-time creative and entrepreneur, a few months after we signed a multi-year deal with iHeartRadio’s My Cultura Podcast Network. My creative work and my business are inherently tied to my identity. Admittedly, I overwork myself. I could delegate a little more. There are a few things I could switch up. So when my therapist asked, “What’s your identity outside of your work?” I sat with that question for weeks. 

My creative work is values-driven. Over the years we’ve worked to destigmatize topics like sex and mental health in the Latinx community. We’ve interviewed up-and-coming artists and established artists. We’ve facilitated nuanced dialogue and archived our communities' stories and experiences since the beginning. 

I spent most of my 20s building Locatora Radio (alongside Mala) and later scaled it into the business, Locatora Productions. I’ve poured all of myself into my business, especially since taking the leap as an entrepreneur. I’m so proud of all of the creative projects we’ve taken on as a business. I will continue to pour myself into my work and the audio art we create. But this year, I hope to save a little something for myself. I’m setting out to find my creative voice as a writer and artist, without the pressure of creating for monetization or for downloads or views. 

Over the years, I’ve written for dream publications like The Los Angeles Times, LAist, and Refinery29 Somos, but frankly, I’m an anxious freelance writer. The perfectionist in me agonizes over submitting work that I sought out. My goal is to use this space to write for the sake of writing, work through my perfectionist tendencies, and build a community on a new platform. I go through waves of being very active on social media and then sharing nothing for weeks. It’s time to admit that I might have outgrown the platform and recognize that it’s time to get back to writing. 

I’ve been flirting with starting a substack for a month and I’ve never turned something around quickly. I decided to ride the momentum and excitement wave. I didn’t want this idea to die in my journal or group chat so I’m launching this! Even if I’m not fully ready, even if it’s not perfect. I’m doing it. 

Here’s my loving reminder to you: your brilliance and creative projects can get lost in the perfectionist and overthink loop. Don’t let it. Your art is needed in this world. Even if your work is creative, there’s room for more of it. There’s always room for more art. If you’ve been itching to start a new project, do it. Do it now. Do it scared. 

I’m excited to grow alongside this digital community of writers, artists, and creatives. I will spend the rest of this year (and probably the rest of my life) rediscovering my creative voice. I invite you to join me on this journey. 

Welcome to “Enojona pero no tanto”, your digital resting place of musings from a misunderstood Latina, sensitive bisexual, cultural commentator, and full-time creative.