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I’ve always written things down, yet I’m no writer. In high school, my comadre Michelle and I collected diaries and planners, keeping detailed documentation of everything going on in our not-so-complicated teenage lives. Years later, when I met my husband, he introduced me to the concept of “Morning Pages,” a form of journaling, and my tracking habits evolved into something more structured.

About seven months ago, I was going through a really, really hard time, and I couldn’t pinpoint why. Snooping through my pages from that time, I kept writing about how emotional, sensitive, and anxious I was feeling. No amount of food or sleep felt like enough. I was feeling drained, intellectually challenged, and my frustration had reached a whole other level.

I AM NOT LIKE THIS! I remember telling myself.

Then one fine morning, after consuming four margaritas the night before at a dear friend’s wedding (keep in mind, I am not a heavy drinker; I barely drink, but that night I was insatiable, euphoric, the margaritas were flowing, and the guac and chips seemed infinite), I woke up with gigantic boobs.

By then, I was deep into a very health-conscious journey, “priming” my body to get pregnant. I had lost over 10 lbs in a year’s time, and my once-voluptuous boobs were long gone, so you can imagine my surprise when I caught those jugs in the mirror.

I sat down to pee, and decided, why not take a pregnancy test, just for fun.

I peed on a stick, saw one line, and, as we always joked, I yelled to Tomás, who was prepping coffee in the kitchen, “Youuuu are NOT the father” and placed the stick on top of the toilet.

He had a yoga class to get to, so I lay on the couch and rot in my hangover. When he came into the bathroom to finish getting ready, he paused and said, “I see two stripes though.”

My husband and I live somewhere between reality and absurdity. We tease each other constantly, so much so that it’s often hard to tell when either of us is being serious.

I told him I wasn’t in the mood for it. Well… neither was he.

I grabbed the test. We looked at each other in complete disbelief. IS THIS HAPPENING? Apparently, it was. He got teary-eyed, pulled me into a hard hug, and said, “Okay, I really have to go. Will you wait for me?”

What followed was a series of frantic Google searches, a few phone calls, and one final confirmation via sonogram and blood test.

At six weeks pregnant, I felt like I was on top of the world. Everything finally made sense. All the emotional turbulence, the bodily sensations, the invasive thoughts suddenly had a reason. I kept going to the gym just as hard as before, and became very particular about ordering steak whenever we went out.

That clarity and emotional tempo lasted about two weeks.

I was in the middle of a work call on a Wednesday afternoon when I had to excuse myself and throw up my lunch. And just like that, the nausea arrived, and every symptom followed, all at once, completely unannounced. It hit me like a bag of bricks.

The months of November - March were absolute hell-ish. I canceled at the last minute on a close friend's family Thanksgiving dinner. I missed Christmas celebrations in Paris with my in-laws (I literally did not leave my hotel for days at a time). Pikora’s grid went dark. All of it, because I was too busy throwing up and ordering insane amounts of Uber Eats, unable to cook or be within ten feet of a raw egg.

Keep in mind we are in May, at the beginning of my third trimester, and just sitting down to write these pages without a cracker + cheese intermission feels like a flex.

Not recognizing myself is an absolute understatement. For someone who once struggled with bulimia, the fact that I couldn’t control my vomiting was deeply ironic. I remember hugging the toilet with tears in the corners of my eyes, thinking, how did I ever put myself in this position by choice? I would have given anything not to be sitting on that floor, feeling like I was about to pass out from exhaustion and dehydration.

And then there was the obsession I once had with my body, the fixation on how I felt in jeans, the inches around my waistline. Now, to think that I am the real-life interpretation of the seal emoji makes me want to laugh and take a nap at the same time.

Having to buy D-cup bras (and they still run tight), and storing my jeans alongside ski clothes were one of the few things that I had to implement in order to avoid having a meltdown every time I needed to get out of my leggings and look presentable. I still don’t feel presentable, but I try.

Now, on to the emotional side of things.

Where do I begin?

The immense responsibility I feel is overwhelming on its own, but what has truly messed with my mental health is something deeper: the fear that I won’t be able to become someone’s mother.

I have always felt quietly incapable, the kind of person who surprises herself after every big achievement. I still hear Tomás’ or my aunt’s Maruja voice in my head saying, “See? I knew you could do it. You just have to believe in yourself.” And I appreciate it every time, because I genuinely don’t. I can be my own harshest judge and most relentless critic. So you can imagine how I feel now, when I can barely catch up on work, when my social battery is so depleted that committing to an hour-long lunch with a friend feels like climbing Kilimanjaro. When I have become someone I don’t fully recognize: inefficient with my time, napping twice a day when I was never a napper, canceling my beloved, most-utilized gym membership, and celebrating if I manage to hit 7,000 steps.

So how the HELL am I going to take care of a newborn if I can barely take care of myself?

Jury's still out on this one. But if I've survived everything I've survived, I'd like to believe I will do a pretty decent job at the one thing I was born to do.

And then of course, there’s the classic unsolicited Instagram message from someone I haven’t spoken to in years: “Oh, honey, if you feel like this now, just wait. Postpartum is a real treat.”

Women can sometimes be harsher than the mean boy in high school.

I could go on and on, but I am realizing this is only the first installment of many from this season of my life. I will end this letter with one final thought: for someone who thrived on planning, vision boards, and making month-in-advance reservations, if there is anything these seven months have taught me, it is to be present.

There is no time like now, because tomorrow can look reeeeeal different.

More to come, friends.

🍒🍒 Snack time: Stuff I’ve been enjoying lately.

One of my earliest memories is walking into a New York pharmacy and spending what felt like hours in the shampoo aisle, scanning bottle after bottle, overwhelmed with options, only to find the one that I liked best. All shampoos probably did the same thing (cleaned your hair), but the packaging needed to stand out inside my shower. It felt like browsing for a toy. Never mind if it was dangerous for my scalp or toxic for the planet. This was the ‘90s, and no one was hyper-aware of ingredients or microplastics.

So when it came time for me to design something, it was no surprise that I spent hours scrolling through Pinterest boards, browsing supermarket shelves, and obsessing over packaging and visual inspiration for Pikora, because as a consumer, I fall for pretty things 90% of the time, so my brand had to be more than delicious. It had to look amazing.

With packaging, there’s an opportunity to create an experience for the consumer beyond the act of consumption. For me, that creates memorability and affinity: two things you can’t buy.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who was extra excited to open an Apple product, where every little paper fold was deliberate and measured perfectly to hug all the corners and edges of the iPod or any other Apple product. It was like unwrapping something precious, and the unboxing experience felt ceremonial. It seemed like a crime to rip it open and throw it away. (I think I still have some of those boxes tucked away somewhere in my office).

So I put a ton of attention and energy into designing Pikora’s packaging (thank you to my friends at Break Maiden), and everyone loved it; it would literally stand out on the shelves.

The first 6 months of launching the business, I was hyper-focused on getting customer feedback (still am), but by the time summer came, I was already thinking of winter, aka soup season, and what we could do to be relevant by then.

As orders and comments came in, I noticed a clear pattern: people wanted more Dulce (cocoa).

I guess we all like to cook and enjoy a savory snack, but nothing beats a sweet treat. That’s when the a-ha moment hit. Instead of doing the expected seasonal thing, like launching a pumpkin spice flavor, why not build on something we already have (and that people love) and just play with the format?

Dulce was inspired by Toddy and Taco, the chocolate drink I grew up drinking in Venezuela. Except our version isn’t loaded with sugar. Those two drinks usually came in big containers, so naturally, my mind went there (the people want more!).

The way I used to drink them was with powdered milk, which back home came in an aluminum canister. So, doing something like that felt like the perfect solution to avoid plastic.

And so I entered the rabbit hole.

I couldn’t find any partners here in the U.S. who didn’t require an insanely large order, so Alibaba became the alternate plan. Just opening an account and browsing the platform felt so daunting; I honestly thought I wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But I slowly became more comfortable, and every night around 9 p.m., when China’s workday begins, I’d sit down and start reaching out to everyone and their mother. In no time, I became a trade and tariff expert.

To my surprise, all the suppliers were incredibly responsive and helpful, and the number of options available to me blew me away. I was walking those shampoo aisles all over again.

I began with the idea of having a super luxe container, one that resembled a beauty product, and maybe adding a label to it.

I found this super high-quality aluminum container, but after going through all that trouble, not having the option to customize it, it felt like a missed opportunity. I reached out to over 20 suppliers and received around 15 samples before finding a coffee canister that could actually work for us. We had the option to use an existing mold, and once we explored adding our brand colors and custom embossing, that version became the clear winner.

Still, the decision-making process dragged on, and it took us nearly two months to pull the trigger. By then, we had to rush production. For context, some of these factories require at least 12 weeks just to manufacture, plus another 35-45 days for sea freight. We did not have that kind of time if we wanted it ready by early November.

So, we pushed the pedal to the metal. We figured out how to air-freight about 1/4 of the cargo and send the rest by sea, so we have some inventory ready in time for the holidays.

Every new product deserves a GREAT photoshoot, so my friend Brett introduced me to Hadley, her college friend and an insanely talented photographer, and I started creating my mood board to land the overall look and feel.

What came out of six intense hours of production was pure magic. Better than I could have imagined. I’m not a designer, and I have little experience creating physical products. Still, somehow I pulled off this massive experiment: a sleek, minimalist aluminum tin filled with what I genuinely believe is the best cocoa powder out there. Of course, there are still tweaks to make, but like I’ve told everyone who’s seen it, I couldn’t be prouder of this first edition.

The final touch, and where I still need to remind myself that Pikora is a business and not a nonprofit (but I couldn’t help it), was skipping the usual plastic measuring scoop. Instead, I added a stainless steel tablespoon. A tool meant to live in your kitchen drawer, useful for more than just Big Dulce. For baking with your kids, scooping your morning coffee, or simply as a little keepsake that says we’re here, doing things kinda differently.

If you want to try Big Dulce, please use code ‘SWEETREAT’ at checkout for a little discount :)

Till next time,

Ana

I normally leave space to write these letters before I go to the gym, and that typically falls within the 6:15 - 7:15 am block. But five+ weeks have passed, and I still haven’t had the courage to press send. That little conundrum has gotten me exactly nowhere, leaving me with ten Google Docs full of word vomit. So now, not only do I feel like an inconsistent fool, but I’ve also managed to confuse myself in the process.

One of the reasons why I’m glued to this rat trap is because Q4 exploded in my face, and everything is happening all at once (more on this in a bit), and time feels like an abstract concept. It’s like bumping into all your exes and past enemies on the same day you’re having a bad hair day. It’s like, yeah, I’d like to believe I’m fabulous no matter what, but also what the fuck, I wish I were a little more prepared.

Carving out time to write my Substack felt ambitious.
It’s hard enough waking up to Slack messages needing my attention and choosing to ignore them so I can sit down and write uninterrupted thoughts. So the idea of escaping to the wine country for a two-day retreat, in the middle of my busiest season, felt… borderline impossible. But when a VC firm invites you to an all-inclusive “Founder’s Retreat” in Carmel, California, you go to Banana Republic, get a couple of smart-casual outfits, and say yes.

Every year, this Silicon Valley firm hosts an annual event where it gathers 150 CEOs and founders of companies it has either invested in or worked with, to treat them to California’s finest and offer a safe place to commiserate, exchange government secrets, and talk shop.

It’s primarily geared toward tech and finance companies, so let’s just say, I was the colorful guest of the bunch.

On a Tuesday, I landed at the Monterey Regional Airport, and a very nice gentleman was holding a card with my name on it. We drove about 20 minutes and arrived at the vineyard-side ranch that was reserved for the event. Dropped my luggage at my SICK suite (not room, important distinction), changed into my fit, and headed to the first panel of the day.

Intimidation infiltrated my bones, but I poured myself the first coffee of the day and, as the caffeine kicked in, I felt ready to walk up to strangers, introduce myself, and make small talk.

The day consisted of back-to-back breakout rooms and group activities where we basically sat around each other and talked. This time, I didn’t do any of the talking; I just sat down and listened. I didn’t have much to add in the panels “Lessons from second-time founders in an AI world” or “The growth playbook: scaling ARR from $5 to $50M.”

The 32 hours that I spent away from my desk were enough to leave me in a state of ANYLISIS PARALYSIS to say the least.

For the first time, I was exposed to a cohort of individuals who were walking a fairly similar path as mine, except that if I worked hard, all 149 of them worked harder, and they were easily 150 light-years ahead. They were all experts in their field, while I just knew a little bit of everything but a whole lot of nothing.

For privacy purposes, I won’t reveal much, but trust me when I say these people were made of something else. They’ve rubbed shoulders with Steve Jobs, spoken on TED stages, and sold their companies for checks with way too many zeros… all while raising kids, managing mortgages, and (some of them) sustaining happy marriages.

Yes, I launched Pikora 10 months ago, and it’s been doing great, but why does it still feel like it’s not enough? Is it because my expectations were so high that any progress feels like the bare minimum? Or maybe because building a food company means you need to be doing ridiculously well to break even, and maybe what I feel is perfectly normal?

For context, the people who “make it” are often on the shelves of a big national retailer, such as Whole Foods. In order for that to happen you need to:
1) have raised enough capital to sustain the production for the order (remember when Molly Baz’s Ayoh! Raised $4.5M just to be in Whole Foods?)
2) you need “Free fill,” which basically means giving away product just to earn a spot on the shelf and prove you could move it. So, of course, I feel paralyzed because what I thought to be major, like dumping my savings and selling out of my first production (about 6,000 boxes) in 10 months, apparently still doesn’t count for much.

At the retreat, we had one final breakout session called “Founder’s Therapy.”

This one was just for founders (not all CEOs are founders, by the way), so it was a smaller group, about 50 of us in a room. The goal was to open up to the circle and share the kind of stuff that keeps you up at night, the thoughts you wouldn’t even say out loud to your spouse, and find some relief, or at least solidarity, from people in the circle.

One founder shared that despite running a wildly successful company, he constantly had to hide and mute his own emotions. He worried his energy would “contaminate” the team because he felt everyone relied on him. Whenever a challenge arose, he had to suppress his true feelings because showing vulnerability might disrupt the entire culture. So instead, he would pretend and put up an act, and this was starting to consume him.

No matter the stage we were at, we were all carrying the same weight, and that’s when I finally felt like I belonged in that room.

Even if we spoke different languages (I spoke bone broth, they spoke algorithms and enterprise strategies), we were all wrestling with the same thing: pressure.
Huh. Maybe they aren’t made of something else after all.

So of course, the minute I got home, my instinct was to give myself a pep talk and tell myself to step it the fuck up. Because what I’m feeling is not just normal, it’s expected. And if that’s true, then it shouldn’t stop me from pushing forward.

This last stretch of the year has had me juggling production delays for Dulce, our best-selling cocoa bone broth, the planning of the launch of our new product (COMING 11/10), some cash flow hiccups (spoiler: running a business at this stage is mostly just paying bills), and getting everything in motion for our big season (sweater weather = soup).

But part of my balancing act is to watch a show before bed, and last week I finished The Rehearsal (season 2), and this scene of Nathan Fielder giving feedback to a little girl really caught me:

When the episode ended, I had to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye because it genuinely felt like he was talking to me. Because, despite the amount of bullshit I swallow on a daily basis, I sure try hard, and continue to show up every day (uno si tiene que comer mierda vale).

It might not be a glamorous office, but I’m at my kitchen counter by 6:30 a.m., coffee in hand, ready to start the day, no matter the rejections, delays, or the constant stream of bad news.

I shouldn’t feel like I’m anything less than fearless.

If you’re reading this, I bet you’ve been in my position at some point, and it is my invitation for you (and me) to look at it from a different perspective. Just the fact that you keep trying for that big thing you want in your future already puts you closer to whatever it is you’re chasing.

This felt therapeutic,

Grateful for you,

X

Ana

I’m writing this letter on my flight back to LA after a five-day solo trip to New York. Between late dinners, watching Conrad Fisher edits on TikTok, and a bit of jet lag, my sleep score has taken a hit. And yet, I have no complaints.

Trips like these, where I get to be on my own schedule, walk 30k steps a day, eat at the bar with some reading material (or just sit there and people-watch), somehow fill my cup in a way few things do. I’m especially grateful that my husband isn’t one of those overbearing, possessive types who need me by his side at all times; he gives me space, and to me, that’s the definition of love and freedom.

One of the things I enjoy most, whether I’m traveling or at home, is meeting people. I’m an open book when it comes to myself, and a complete vault when it comes to others. That’s why my hair is so big…it’s full of secrets :). And yet, I have zero problem telling a stranger the story of that one time my mom and I got into a fight because she snooped through my purse and found a CVS receipt for herpes medication. She was convinced it was mine. No, Mom. I let [bleep] borrow that purse, and she has it. Not me. Ugh, I sometimes miss being 18.

The fact that I even have this Substack is an indication that I’m an oversharer, and in this day and age, if you own a business and have a brand, apparently, it helps to be “public.” I guess we all love to gossip and be in other people’s business, because material consumption isn’t enough.

But is there such a thing as being privately public? For the sake of connection, can I share bits and pieces of my life and business without revealing my whole identity? I like to think so. Yet every time I post something, I can’t help but feel like I’m stripping my clothes off in front of strangers, and I wonder if some creep is lurking, scrolling through my content, and using my photos however he/she want.

And when I say “creep,” I don’t just mean some guy in a basement who has a vitamin D deficiency. I also mean generative AI models that can scan your face, mimic your voice, and turn your mannerisms into content you never approved. Over the weekend, Molly Baz shared that Shopify used a photo of her book to promote a feature on their platform, and I found it quite disappointing. A platform with that much reach and funding couldn’t just do a proper photoshoot with real people? The same thing happened to Scarlett Johansson when OpenAI launched an AI personal assistant with a voice that sounded pretty much like hers (then Sam Altman admitted that HER was his favorite movie and he got “inspired” by it, ew.)

Everyone’s maximizing margins, and morals seem to be flying out the window in exchange for financial gain. How did we get here?

Sure, both are public figures, celebrities.

It’s somewhat expected that people out there will copy them. But no one’s doing that with me. Right? I’m just a regular woman with a small online presence and fewer than 1,500 followers on Instagram. Nobody cares.

Then again, social media has completely distorted how we measure visibility. Because if I really think about it, 1,500 people is a lot. I don’t even know 1,500 people.

I was so wrong. Let me introduce you to @mollina.336, my first impresonator.

This “person” is using a photo of me as a profile picture and has “Sii te stesso” in their bio, which is Italian for “Be yourself.” The audacity!

Of course, I reported it, but apparently, according to our beloved Meta, they’re not violating community guidelines. Meta, respectfully, you can go fuck off. <If you want to do me a solid, report the account yourself and see if that helps.> In the meantime, I just need to make peace with the fact that my social channels are public and my Substack is not paywalled and that all this is an occupational hazard (gajes del oficio).

But not everything is fake or bad. Sometimes, being out there online actually opens doors. I flew to New York for work meetings and got invited to speak on the Womansplain podcast, a show about trends and consumer behavior, hosted by women who come from both the founder and corporate worlds. We recorded at night since both hosts are total powerhouses juggling finance day jobs, so by the time we wrapped, I was equal parts relieved and starving.

I treated myself to a celebratory slice at Scarr’s Pizza in LES, then strolled a bit to digest because the night was too good to waste, and it wasn’t even 8 pm in LA. I made my way to the Nine Orchard Hotel, and when I walked into the bar, I spotted a familiar face sitting alone, eating dessert. At first, I thought it was someone else, but as I got closer, I realized it was Carolina Gelen, a huge food creator and NYT author. I fangirled, I admit.

I apologized for interrupting, but then introduced myself and told her I was a huge fan. Just last week, I had been cooking one of the recipes from her book, and I remember thinking, if only she could try Pikora! And suddenly, here she was, right in front of me. What in the glitch in the Matrix was happening here?

We ended up chatting for about 10 minutes about how bizarre it is to spend hours editing content, only for people to watch five seconds and scroll by. Eventually, my line of work came up, and luckily, I had two sachets of Pikora in my bag, which I happily handed over. I told her, confidently, that she’d see Pikora on Whole Foods shelves in a year, and that she’d remember this random girl who stopped her mid-tiramisù. Nicest girl ever.

Alright fam, till next time!

🍒🍒 Snack time: My browsing history + stuff I liked last week:

1. AIR Moon Safari (album): Relistened to my favorite record of all time, and went to see them live at the Hollywood Bowl upon my return to LA. Specifically, I’ve listened 100 times to this rework of New Star in the Sky

2. Veronica Beard Skort: What I wore on repeat in NY

3. HSR: Technology Crisis No One is Talking About: They essentially address many points I covered in this letter, including the distinction between offline and online, how “public personas” are perceived, and why we feel lonely even when we are hyper-connected.

4. Pass the Plate (Book) by Carolina Gelen: Ana’s approved recipes

5. Rhode’s Glazing Milk: I’m a little late to the party, but this is my new favorite thing

6. IYKYK: I’m not going even to explain what this is

I didn’t mean to take such a long hiatus from this space, but life took over, and carving out “me” time slipped through the cracks.

I was going through my Found in Transition Drive and realized my last draft was from January. I had started writing about Pikora’s launch, which happened the same week the LA fires started. The letter began with a few lines about the weird, conflicting feeling of seeing so much destruction around me while my own life and belongings were still intact. And then it stopped. I clearly didn’t have the stomach to keep writing.

Then Pikora’s first months happened, and they were intense, to say the least (it's still intense, I think even worse) (I naively thought that it was hard to launch, to realize later that to keep it afloat is even harder)

So let’s do a quick recap of what has happened since we last spoke.

I finally launched Pikora, the actual reason why I started this letter in the first place.

What is Pikora, you may ask? For those who don’t know, it’s a very convenient and delicious powdered bone broth I accidentally created when I got tired of being tired (and sick of being sick).

Launching a food company in the U.S. has been, without exaggeration, the hardest and most terrifying thing I’ve ever done –but also (sometimes) the most rewarding because it shows me that I’m capable of doing things I never thought I could. As a Latina, food has always been at the center of my life (a little too centric for my own good), so doing something around food was the natural thing to do.

In many ways, creating Pikora became part creative outlet, part therapy. My way of coping with homesickness and keeping my mom’s spirit close. It also gave me a new way to reimagine my relationship with food. One that’s about healing, not punishment, and if you’ve been reading my letters, you know I’ve struggled with disordered eating in my adult life. It hasn’t been linear. It’s been layered and, at times, pretty fucking heavy. But I’ve been doing the work.

The kind that costs around $200 an hour because… #therapy. Easily the best investment I’ve ever made. Not like those “Shop My” Links you convince yourself are investments, just so you don’t have to face the fact that, deep down, you’re still tying your self-worth to material things. I still fall for those, and will drop some of those links here because a girl has to eat. Or in this case, build multiple streams of income.

Speaking of therapy, what I’ve been discussing lately is that this “work” on myself is essentially about rekindling the love for myself. In another life, someone once told me that I could never be the CEO or founder of a company because “I wasn’t that smart or creative,” and I believed that for many years. I’ve been proving to myself that I’m actually the opposite. But my biggest discovery? I'm GREAT at CREATING. Yes, humble brag.

I developed a phenomenal product (instant cocoa bone broth? Hell yes - no shade to my chicken and beef flavors), and those months I spent talking to food scientists and tweaking tiny details that no one will notice have been my favorite part of it all. This process also required patience and consistency. Two values I didn’t know I possessed.

What a nice surprise.

One of my oldest friends texted me last week that she would love to read a little more about this “founder” journey. Ugh, I hate the concept of the “Founder Journey,” but it truly is. I’m no Grand Slam winner, but I can guarantee that training in professional sports takes a page from the playbook of launching a business, or maybe it's the other way around? Still. What does it take to do all of this? Or better put, what do you have to give up to do all of this?

Still unclear, but at the moment, I feel like I’m a soldier of the Mafia org chat. I do pretty much everything and get my hands dirty all the time - and it seems like I go to bed every night wondering when or if I’ll ever be on top, feeling like no matter how much I do, it feels like it’s not enough. Yes, the gloves will come off over here.

Didn’t mean to be a Debbie Downer, but this is what it feels like to be a girl.

Part of the balancing act I’m doing these days is doing things outside of my work to maintain my sanity, so I’m going to ask you guys to help me stay accountable. If you’re reading, let me know, and if you’re on a similar path to mine, please manifest yourself. I don’t want this to be a one-way conversation.

This was a short one. I’ll be back.

🍒🍒 Snack time: My browsing history + stuff I liked:

1. How Long Gone (Podcast): For some reason, I’m very much into bro podcasts lately, and this is my favorite so far.

2. Alter Bio: My friend Lauren launched her clean home cleaning brand, and I will never go back to buying Mrs. Meyers

3. Peter Shire mug: I developed a hyper fixation on collecting mugs because sipping Pikora in a beautiful artifact feels decadent - I have no plans on spending $100+ on a mug, but if I were to be in that position, I’ll get one like this one. Go get it for me.

4. TBPN (Podcast): Ever since I started learning about investing, I got into the habit of listening to tech and finance podcasts, and I discovered these two dudes. One morning, I was leaving the gym and saw them walking into the coffee shop next door. Without thinking, I literally screamed, “I LOVE YOUR SHOW, YOU’RE DOING GREAT!” full awkward fangirl moment. In my defense, I had been listening to them every other day, so seeing them in real life felt like a fun little coincidence. The next morning, it happened again. And the one after that. Turns out, we have the same routine: same gym, same coffee spot, same parking lot. And now I’m 95% sure they think I’m stalking them. Please kill me.

5. My new favorite nail polish: nothing to add.

6. Fellow Kettle: I bought this for an event for Pikora and kept it. It’s fabulous.

1. If you ask someone on a plane to swap seats, make sure you offer an equal or better seat. Don’t you dare to ask to swap your middle seat for their aisle or window seat.

2. If you’re in public, please put your phone on mute or wear headphones. Absolutely nobody should listen to what you are—a special offense to those who take speakers with them on hikes. Noise pollution should be illegal. 

3. Splitting bills while dining out: There are many scenarios here, but let’s start with the heavy drinkers. If you drink 2+ drinks, and someone on your table is not drinking, offer to cover the tip or pay 20% more. It’s rude to expect others to pay for your bad habits. 

   1. If someone wanted to take all the points and paid the bill in full, don’t become delinquent with the Venmo request. Pay within 24 hours of receiving it. 

4. If someone’s picking you up, invite a drink or pay for parking. 

5. Now, if it's your turn to drive, wait until your friend gets inside their apartment or house before taking off, especially at night.

   Be a part of my Fan club and hit subscribe

6. Never show up empty-handed. But don’t come with food unless asked. Bottle of wine? Sure. Artisanal cheese from the farmer’s market? Yes, I can get behind that—extra points for flowers.

   

7. House guest rules (another lengthy one, but I’ll cover the basics): 

   1. Keep your room and bathroom spotless. 

   2. Cover some sort of grocery: coffee, breakfast item, alcohol, whatever your friends are into 

   3. Stay for three nights - tops. In my family, we say guests are like fish; it goes bad after three days (la visita como el pescado, a los tres dias se daña)

   4. Always wear respectable clothing, even at off-hours—you don't want to run into your friend's husband in your underwear on your way to the bathroom.

   5. Leave a sweet note or flowers on your way out. It’s honestly the least you can do 

   6. Don’t ask to stay again unless it’s offered. You’re an adult, get an Airbnb.

      

8. On first dates: 

   1. If he/she pays for dinner, the first round of drinks is on you

   2. Do yourself a favor, and don’t ask to be picked up. Get an Uber and think twice before he/she asks to drop you off at home at the end of the date. 

   3. Ask questions but don’t make it an interview; you’ll learn things in time.

   4. No ex talk here. It's a considerably big red flag if either of you bring up the subject. Why are we talking about other people? Are there any loose ends there? Is there a grudge you haven’t gotten over yet? 
      
      

9. On Exes (we might need another letter to cover this): 

   1. Never speak poorly of an ex in public. It says more about you than them. You do have carte blanche with your family and extremely close friends. 

   2. Don’t stay in touch unless you’re friends. This water should be under the bridge, especially if years have passed and you both moved on (think about your current partner and how this exchange will make them feel) 

      1. Exceptions: 

         1. Death in the family 

         2. Birthdays are OK - until they aren’t; only you will know 

         3. You found something truly important to the other person 

            
            *Use the Richter Scale as a rule of thumb for how to handle an ex-romantic partner. Rule 9.b applies to exes of magnitude 5 and above—the ones who were a BIG deal. If it was just a brief three-month fling that fizzled out, feel free to keep them on speed dial for all I care.

      

   3. Always say ‘hello,’ no matter the setting: airport, pharmacy, restaurant, wedding, you name it. You are a civilized adult, and this person saw you naked at some point in your life. 

   4. You're entitled to delete photos of your ex from your social media. It's not about erasing your past but about keeping those memories private.

      
      **(This applies to exes you don't share a child with—I'm not a parent, so I can't fully understand what it's like to co-parent with an ex.)**

10. If you use up the milk at home, please replace it right away. By 'milk,' I mean all essential household items—like toilet paper, paper towels, coffee, etc.- anything that could ruin your partner's day if it runs out.

11. Mind your business: Be mindful of the questions you ask, especially in a group setting. Don’t ask Katherine when she's getting pregnant or Carlos if he’s going to propose this year in front of everyone. 

    

12. On that note, please don’t comment on anyone’s weight—' OMG, you look so skinny!’ There are other ways to compliment people’s looks. 

13. Be the bigger person, especially when driving. I’ll admit, I developed a bit of road rage as an adult, but after watching 'Beef' on Netflix, I realized you never know if the person who didn't use their turn signal is an unhinged individual with a gun—no thanks. Plus, it's just a waste of energy.

14. It's okay—even encouraged—to talk about money; just do it humbly, and don’t be a dick about it. If you made money by selling a position or got a raise, talk about it gracefully and remember that not everyone is as lucky or as savvy as you. 

    1. This applies to your achievements as well. There’s a fine line between pride and arrogance.

       

15. On that note, just don’t rub it into people’s faces. Flying first class? Got a ride on a private plane? How about a stay at a super lux spot? The selfie is unnecessary. The people who have actual money don’t even do that. It’s called quiet luxury. Look it up.
    

    

16. On social media: (#15 also applies under this category) 

    1. Pay attention when posting about your kids or your romantic partner. We get it—you’re happy! A single anniversary post is sweet, and celebrating your baby turning one is a big milestone. Beyond that, you’re just being annoying. 

    2. Save the overly self-indulgent photos for the frames your mom keeps above her dresser. If you're constantly posting super-produced black-and-white pictures of yourself in a turtleneck, it might be time to reflect on why.

    3. You don't have to follow someone back. If someone follows you, you're not obligated to reciprocate—it doesn't mean you dislike them; it means you don't want their content on your feed.

    4. You can always change your mind: follow whoever and unfollow whoever you want. 

17. Don’t call people after sunset on weeknights just to chat. I personally don’t like to see my phone past 8 p.m., let alone engage in a conversation. 

    1. Don't get upset if people don't respond to your texts within the hour—they have jobs and lives and are entitled not to be glued to their phones.

    2. Don’t take calls when you’re in a car with other people or sharing any other enclosed space. It’s inconsiderate, and people deserve to sit in silence. 

18. Don't dominate the conversation. I know, this one is tough. I find myself incredibly entertaining and often the funniest person at the table—until I'm not.
    Leave space for others, ask questions, and listen.

19. Be nice. You will be amazed at how far you can go with a smile on your face, especially with the people who are serving you: baristas, waiters, cleaners, nurses, etc. → This also applies to rude people, bosses, and sucky co-workers.

20. Never steal in any way or form. Attention, money, energy, thunder. 

Should we do a part 2?

What are the unspoken rules you live by? Is there a specific rule you created because of a particular experience that taught you to handle things differently?

Let’s chat!

At your service,

Ana Elena

I downloaded all of my Substack letters, uploaded them into the system, and asked the tool to analyze them and create a podcast episode. The outcome is unreal and pretty incredible.

You’ll hear the undeniable chemistry between Greg and Melissa (I just came up with those names because they sound like a Greg and a Melissa) and their commentary on my life.

If you’ve been delinquent with your reading, this is actually a good way to catch up with the sub.

Enjoy!

I always tell my friends to prolong this stage of a relationship as long as possible because next thing you know, you’re peeing in front of each other and folding your partner’s underwear - once you open that door, there’s no turning back. I did my best to follow my unspoken rule, but I faced out-of-the-ordinary circumstances (classic) that accelerated some processes, especially on the intimacy front. 

He lived by the beach, and I lived in Midtown. It was a convenient setup to have my space on weekdays and a pied-à-terre by the beach on weekends – a luxury not many have, but I was definitely milking at the time. (pun intended! You’ll later understand why!). Who cared my car looked like a gypsy wagon with multiple bags and shoes scattered in the trunk? I was getting into the ocean before making coffee - I was more than willing to compromise.

When we met, he had recently moved to Miami from New York after 6+ excruciating years working on Wall Street. To say he was burned out was an understatement; plus, all the bad habits he inherited from New York he brought down to Miami. I remember being horrified the first time I went to his place when I saw a towering stack of takeout bags from Pura Vida (shoutout) and boxes over boxes of RX Bars in his fridge. ‘WTF is this?!’ I asked - 🚩🚩🚩 ‘That’s lunch - I just don’t cook.’ 🚩🚩🚩

Of course he didn’t cook.

He told me horror stories about him getting to the office around 5 a.m. to catch a workout, having breakfast at his desk at 6 a.m. before the market opened, and then free Uber rides home because his bank offered them to anyone staying past 10 p.m.
NO THANKS.

Aside from his lack of culinary skills, the guy was pretty much perfect (I even asked him on our third date what his 'catch' was because he seemed too good to be true). But it wasn’t until our second month of dating that I noticed something was off with him. He had tons of allergies, was constantly tired, and struggled with serious insomnia. I remember waking up several times during the night to find him restlessly reading in my living room. OMG, he’s sick, and we don’t know what it is.

After months of exams and a ton of research, it was ruled out that he suffered from Lyme disease or any other autoimmune issues until he met with this Goopy doctor called  Linda Lancaster, and she concluded that parasites might be the root cause of his symptoms. 

One Tuesday night, he showed up at my house with a serious expression and said, 'I don’t think we should see each other this week.' My heart sank—was this it? What went wrong? Things were going so well! 

He then explained that Dr. Linda had recommended an ‘extreme anti-parasite protocol,’ which involved drinking nothing but milk for eight days, along with a carefully selected regimen of herbal supplements. Apparently, parasites (like me) love milk. After drinking milk, they come out from their hiding places in your intestines to swim in your stomach, and the supplements are supposed to wipe them out. 

I felt so bad for him. Leaving him to go through that hell alone for eight days? No way. 'I’m doing it with you,' I said. Besides, we’d been to Mexico a couple of weeks earlier, and my stomach had felt a little off—I was convinced I had parasites, too. His eyes lit up, 'You’d really do that for me? Are you sure?' Of course not—but I cared about him, and there was no way he could handle that on his own. He called Dr. Linda, and she overnighted my supplements. We were in it together.

The protocol rules were very straightforward: we could only drink 6- 8 oz of either goat’s or cow’s milk, hot or cold, every 2 hours and chug down the pills. Small amounts of black coffee and cinnamon were allowed. I look back and ask myself how the fuck did I agree to do that?!

Fortunately, I was between jobs with ten days to spare before starting my new one, so we decided to camp at his place by the beach, where he stored no food or tempting treats. We stopped at Whole Foods, stocked up on an absurd amount of milk, and bid farewell to food and society for the following days. And so began the most intimate eight days of our (still-new) relationship. Let’s ruin the mystery! 

If you want to put your relationship to test and get really deep, try sticking together for eight days with no food, no friends, and no alcohol. You'll be amazed at what you learn about each other. The first three days, I honestly thought we wouldn’t make it—we had no energy and were utterly useless. But by day four, we adapted to our monk-like existence, and I became a master at inventing milk-based recipes. Milk ice cream, frothy milk with cinnamon, iced lattes, milk frappes—you name it, I tried it all."

During eight days, we did nothing but cry and laugh, talk until we fell asleep, play all the cards from ‘We’re Not Really Strangers,’ and be okay with just sitting in silence together. There was nothing else to do but live through the process and be each other’s company. That’s when I realized he was really into me —because I’d never felt less sexy or attractive. This guy was in, and not just for my looks.

Did I need to go through this cleanse to reevaluate my definition of intimacy? Perhaps. Did I have a flawed perspective on how to truly connect with someone? Most likely. What I did realize was that in previous relationships, the first few months were all smoke and mirrors, filled with distractions and misplaced focus. I’m not saying you need to take extreme measures to get to know someone, but these were unusual circumstances that helped the case and brought us incredibly close—maybe even a little too close (I’d share more details if we weren’t still together, but I don’t want him filing for divorce). In the end, I wouldn’t change a thing about how it all unfolded, and I actually loved that we got to be very real with each other so early on.

Right after we concluded our disgraceful journey, my mother-in-law invited us to my favorite Italian spot. I feared solids, but at the same time, I craved their most boring dish: chicken paillard with steamed vegetables—my definition of comfort food.
When we arrived at the restaurant, Tomás’ mom jumped with excitement to congratulate us. The waiter noticed the exchange and asked if we were celebrating something special, glancing at my left hand and noting no ring. She quickly responded, ‘They just did something beautiful together!’ I assume she was thrilled to see her parasite-free son and the martyr girlfriend who volunteered as tribute to join him on the cleanse—so she wouldn’t have to.

As soon as we sat down at the table, a round of Bellinis, their specialty cocktail, arrived, and my immediate reaction was, ‘OH NO, I SHOULDN’T!.’ I touched my belly while saying it because just the smell of alcohol made me sick to my stomach. Of course you can imagine what the nosey Italian (no shade here, my family is of Italian descent, and we are very nosey) gathered from the whole scene.
To his eyes, I was pregnant, and dessert was on the house.
To mine, I was up to my neck in my relationship with this guy I met just five months ago; eight days of milk forced us to open many doors, and there was no turning back. 

Share Found in Transition

Love having you here,

I promise I will never attempt to do a stunt like this again.

Muchos besos,

Ana Elena

🍒🍒 Snack time: OK, friends, this time, I’m not sharing anything to buy or tune into. The other day, while scrolling, I realized that 95% of the content I was consuming was centered around consumption—buy this, try that, get that. It started to feel like we’re all falling into a relentless capitalist trap. Can’t the value here just be pure entertainment? Isn’t that enough, or do I need to sell out and flood you with commissionable links just to make this hobby sustainable? Should we dive into this more in future letters?

💭💭 Let’s chat! Drop a comment! I would love to build a community from this platform. 💭💭

To compensate for the lack of amusement only a sibling could offer, as a kid, I invented dialects, imagined worlds, and designed tunnels made out of pillows and shoe boxes in my mom’s closet. As an adult, I wasn’t much different. Except now, it has become unavoidably clear that I’ve created distractions to avoid admitting that I’ve always been very, very lonely. 

In my late 20s, while living and working in Miami, I found myself rooted in a comfortable routine. Transitioning out of a failed marriage and into a more successful single life, I (unsurprisingly) grew accustomed to being alone again. To simplify things, I moved into an apartment across from my office, so my days revolved around work, working out, and socializing.  With my focus so narrowly fixed, I unintentionally left little room for extracurriculars beyond going out and drinking.

As I reshaped my life and steered clear of the clichés I encountered daily, I began to nurture my curiosity with small stuff. I was adamant about resisting the idea that I was becoming just another superficial 20-something, devoid of curiosity and genuine interests. The thought of reducing my life to cringeworthy selfies at yoga studios, chasing a shallow sense of spirituality, and constantly seeking validation from the outside world (because otherwise, why the selfie?) felt unbearable. So I often found myself invested in watching decluttering tactic videos on YouTube, making breakfast to the sound of Michael Barbaro’s voice, and going out on sunset walks with Dhru Purohit – again, with small stuff. 

Without realizing it, podcasts became my new best friends and favorite medium. They offered me the company and consolation I was looking for. 

On one of those afternoons, while folding laundry, I discovered The Moth - an NPR-produced podcast about storytelling. The stories were short, heartfelt, and profoundly entertaining. In addition, each month, the podcast hosted ‘Open Mic Nights,’ and I noticed they were coming to Miami. The open mic nights had themes, and this time was about “Getting bamboozled” —a concept I never paid much attention to but soon discovered I could easily relate to.

 I thought it would be an excellent group outing, so I put together a plan with my friends. 

On a fresh Spring night, we all met at the theater entrance - filled with excitement and mixed expectations, it struck me that I wasn’t the only one eager to break from the routine. I was friends with my friends for a reason: they weren’t just fun to hang out with, but each had an untapped layer of depth that we hadn’t fully explored, partly because of the nature of the city. I considered Miami a total cultural wasteland. (please, 305 friends, don’t come at me; this was pre-pandemic, and let’s be honest, Miami was an insular party town with mediocre food and good weather only three months of the year) 

The show was set up so that anyone who wanted to share a five-minute story about getting bamboozled could write down their name, and ten would be randomly selected to hop on stage and speak in front of about 200 people. When a friend asked if I was going to put my name in, I responded with a hard NO. Sure, I’m known for telling stories and giving great toasts, but I was by no means a public speaker. 

We sat down and listened to the first half of the show.

‘Damn, these people are not only good but fearless,’ I thought. 

By the time intermission rolled around, I was already a little tipsy from the popcorn and cheap wine. I felt a mischievous impulse take over, and while my friends weren’t looking, I scribbled my name and dumped it into the glass bowl filled with slips of paper. What were the odds of getting selected? There were only five stories left, and the bowl was nearly full. 

My stomach twisted with nerves.

With each turn, I felt a growing sense of relief without my name being called. But just as we reached the end of the night and I thought I was in the clear, the host called my name. I immediately saw the sheer panic invade my friends’ eyes. I could feel the pena ajena (second-hand embarrassment?), but I was too consumed with my own fear of speaking to a sold-out theater. No one could believe that was happening—especially me. 

​​Blinded by the stage lights, I shifted gears with my thoughts from Spanish to English as I began piecing together the story of the last time I got scammed—by being single in Miami.

And so the floodgates opened. 

“It will be AMAZING, Ana; you will have so much fun. You’re young and beautiful, and your life is ahead of you,” said one friend as I told her I was getting a divorce. 

Going out to meet people, finding love for the night, and making your own rules—what’s not to like? I believed her. It was definitely invigorating at the start, but after some months of faking intimacy, I became tired and started to crave real connection.

One morning, confined to my block where my home, gym, office, and coffee shop of choice were all just steps away from each other, I waited for the rain to stop while sipping my Cortado and preparing to cross the street. When it became clear the rain wasn’t stopping, I made a run for it. ‘Hold it!’ I yelled at the person inside the elevator as I shook the rain off me. 

And there he was, like a scene out of a movie—a tall, handsome guy, about 6 feet, shaking off the rain and holding the elevator door with a laugh at the mess we both were. We exchanged comments about the weather as I pressed the button to my floor and noticed he was headed to the one above mine. I waved goodbye as I stepped off and continued my somewhat eventful morning. I was instantly smitten; his charm and energy were the highlight of my otherwise mundane routine. This was a classic meet-cute.

A few hours passed, and I overheard someone in the office asking if anyone wanted coffee. I stopped what I was doing and raised my hand. "I do!" – I didn’t. 

The caffeine was still buzzing through my system, but the coffee station was conveniently located in the common area on the floor above me, which just happened to be where the elevator guy worked. 

I perked up and nonchalantly climbed up the stairs and started to scan the floor, trying to spot him. There were no signs of him, and as my disappointment began to settle in, someone behind me said, ‘Ruda mañana, no?’ - holy shit, he speaks Spanish. ‘Ana Elena, nice to meet you. ‘My pleasure, Alfonso’ (not his real name), and he offered his hand for a shake. 

After this brief interaction, the slow dance of us bumping into each other and exchanging bits of information began. This was it, right? This is why everything happened how it did: so I could meet Alfonso in the elevator of our WeWork and tell our kids the story about how a thunderstorm made me five minutes late, and thanks to that, we bumped into each other.  

This lasted only a few weeks, but it felt like a long crush with endless possibilities to me. One night, before going to bed, I entered one of those rabbit holes on social media to learn more about him, and then I finally stumbled upon his profile. To my surprise, his Instagram was public, and I was quickly overwhelmed with a sense of embarrassment. The first photo I saw was from his wedding, which had taken place just a few months earlier. As I scrolled through his feed, it became clear that he and his now-wife had been together since college —birthdays, Christmases, trips—these people were joined at the hip. Here I was, thinking he might be interested in me and possibly asking me out for dinner.

Desperation can be a powerful driver of creativity. 

I confused good manners with seduction and held on to the smallest acts of kindness. Was I so far removed from fundamental human interactions? Was all this in my head?

Absolutely. I was thirsty in the Sahara desert and saw a mirage on the horizon that disappeared as I became closer. Being single in Miami wasn’t fun at all! This was absolute bullshit. 

I heard the sighs of the audience and the collective pain they felt for me. 

Being single was fun on the surface, but being single was also sad, crushing, and lonely. I bought into the idea with big expectations, but in reality, I was the one getting played by my imagination. 

A couple of days after my eye-opening discovery, I found myself again in the elevator with Alfonso. When another girl asked him to hold the door, he did so with the same charm and kindness he had shown me. Of course he did; he was a gentleman—an almost extinct species. 

As I stepped off the stage, my friends stood up and applauded like if I was a rockstar coming out of a performance. They couldn’t believe the curveball I had thrown at them but more importantly, they had no idea I felt so alone during my journey. 

Five years later, the same thing is happening all over again. As I build Pikora, my business, I’ve encountered one bump after another. ‘Being an entrepreneur is so gratifying!’ ‘Being your boss is the best.’

That remains to be seen. Because this shit is extremely hard. The difference is that this time, it is not a product of my imagination but the result of my curiosity.  

Podcasts continue to be my favorite resource, especially now that I’m building my life’s project from the ground up. There are endless conversations on founding, launching, and managing successful brands and products, but only a few tap into the underbelly of how ungrateful and steep a founder's path is—not to mention lonely. I’m glad I can dump my thoughts and experiences into these lines because I’m sure I am not alone in this chosen path. 

We were supposed to launch Pikora, my bone broth company, in just a few weeks, but we stumbled upon issues with our production, resulting in significant delays. Now, I’m starting to understand why people get jobs instead of creating, but I’d like to believe this is all part of the journey.

More to come, friends.

Muchos besos - Ana.

🍒🍒 Snack time: My browsing history + stuff I liked:

1. Cowboy Colostrum: My latest fixation and current favorite supplement. If you are like me and loved powdered milk as a kid, you will LOVE this.

2. Haircare: I used to wash my hair daily, and now I’m trying only to wash it every other day. My dear friend Cate works at Crown Affair, so I decided to try their brush which is kinder to scalp and hair.

3. ^^^ and I pair it with their Dry Shampoo. I can already feel my hair stronger and silkier.

4. We just moved, and this is my favorite candle to make my home feel like home. I became obsessed with The Edition’s candle, but I am not burning that amount of money, especially while funding my business. Salt and Stone’s smell is preeeetty similar.

5. Andrew Huberman is finally entering his feminine era. This episode covers nutrition and training for women, making it entertaining to watch while on the treadmill. (I’m training to climb Mount Whitney this September, and I’m spending a ton of time on the treadmill with my weighted vest, so I’m always looking for stuff to watch while at it.)

Let’s dive in.

A toxic trait my friend group and I have is that we share endless streams of content on a daily basis through Instagram (sometimes TikTok, too). The rules of engagement are none, except for one: don’t send bad content.
I’ll expand in a bit, but first some deeper context: 

Earlier this year, I heard this episode from Ezra Klein, who invited Kyle Chayka (who wrote this great article, too) on how content is manipulated by social media algorithms, creating seemingly unavoidable echo chambers, and Ezra explains how this is directly tied to creating our own taste. 

The argument is that we’re surrounded by algorithmic recommendations that prevent us from being challenged and forming our own judgment. Everything is molded to the preferences we have already expressed, and we are herded into experiences we feel comfortable with. 

In today's world, maintaining unique tastes and interests is challenging due to constant exposure to information that shapes our perspectives and influences our decisions. The digital landscape often feels uniform, and cultural diversity seems diminished. Basically, the earth is flat when it comes to culture. Originality is about to be extinct, and everyone looks the same, eats the same, and does the same - or at least on my feed; I’m sure on yours, too. (Can we please stop talking about Brat Summer? Also, why am I being harrassed by Mary Janes?)

How can you tell if your tastes, likes, and dislikes are genuinely your own or if you're being influenced without even realizing it? The conversation made me think about how sometimes my digital reality can become extremely narrow. The minute I engage with something online, I get served related content for days (the attribution window feels infinite), and I get tunnel vision. 

A feeling that has now been present for years.
If you don’t know this about me, I’ve worked on social media my entire career. I even brag about being an early adopter on most platforms. 

If you were around (hi Millennial crowd!), you can say that in the mid-2000s, social media looked very different. Remember when the feed was called “The Wall” and people would 'Check into places' and put '@The Library!'  on their profile and update their relationship status from 'In a Relationship' to 'It’s Complicated’? Yikes!

Social media was meant to be about ‘connecting’ and being nosy with each other, not tricking you into spending hours on their platforms.

After graduating from college, I started my career as a marketing coordinator for a large corporation and have since dedicated myself to social media. It's safe to say I'm an expert in the field and fully understand how it works - and for those conspiracy theorists out there, no, they’re not listening to us. They just have endless data on our interests and online behaviors because, like Hansel and Gretel, we love leaving cookie crumbles everywhere we go on the internet.

Being the human that I am, I sometimes surprise myself and end up dropping all my monies on “Annual Events” after being targeted by an Ad, and I get extra annoyed at myself for falling for it - Damn it, Ana. You should know better! 

Apologies, I love getting derailed. Back to my friend group. The other day, someone who will remain nameless shared a post in the IG group chat that was like a car crash: horrible to watch, but somehow, you can’t look away.

The first day was great for the conversation, but after three days of being served that kind of content, we had to make a rule: we don’t send anything that would hurt our curated feeds.

So, how can we tailor such Algorithm? How can we manipulate it rather than the other way around? Is it possible to find our original, individual taste rather than what we’re fed? Can we rediscover our unique style and avoid the content we dislike but still get sucked by it?

I believe we can, but it requires some leg work. 

Some ONLINE tactics I’m trying: 

• 🕵🏻‍♀️ Browse Incognito 

• Mix things up: Try engaging with something you don’t usually engage with. Confuse your feed!

• Mute 🙅🏻‍♀️ and Star ⭐: if you feel like you’re seeing a person way too much and it’s not bringing any value, then stop doing it! On the other hand, Star the ones you want to see more.

  • Change the medium and stack: Do an audit of your screen time and see which platform you use the most on a daily basis. Cut that screen time in half, and pick a different platform you’re going to engage with and stack it/pair it with a different activity (I learned this from Atomic Habits)

    • For example: I spend 2 hours a day on Instagram. I’ll now spend 1 hour a day, and I picked Youtube as a “replacement” but instead of sitting on my ass I picked walking on the treadmill while watching an episode of X on Youtube (most podcasts are on video format, so why not listen to something interesting while you catch your workout)

• Open a Finsta (I actually opened one years ago and even though there’s some cross-over, it helps!). Try not to use it for toxic purposes, but more of a clean slate to source inspiration

  

Some OFFLINE tactics I’m trying:

• 📚 I am reading books that were gifted to me or what I find in my husband’s library instead of the ones I buy myself. This forces me to read things that I wouldn’t normally read, and it takes me outside of my comfort zone. So far, so good.

• Document anything that catches my eye - even if I don’t know why. At the end of the week, I browse my Camera Roll and review my findings.

• 👀 I’ve been spending at least one afternoon a week working at a coffee shop and people-watching — try this; you'll be equally entertained and appalled.

  
  ^^^ I’ll work on some more and will come back to report!

Thanks for joining me today.

See you soon!
Besos - Ana

🍒🍒 Snack time: My browsing history + stuff I liked:

• 🎧 Music: My superstar cousin Tomy visited me in LA this week, and we couldn’t stop listening to this jazzy tune. It's perfect for both working and winding down.

I introduced this format in my previous letter, but let's revisit it. I'll now share what I've been fixating on in a bite-sized format. A quick, easy-to-digest set of recommendations, fixes, and more.

1. Kamana: My friend Mady is on a journey of giving up/ lowering her caffeine intake and decided to try this brand of Mesquite—a new coffee alternative that apparently has the same taste and feel as coffee without the horrendous crash and afternoon jitters. I went ahead and ordered it, as I’m always down to try new products on the market, especially if they’re food.

2. The Mary Janes I ended up getting

3. What I’ll be cooking this weekend at home: Alison Roman’s Spicy Shrimp in Harissa butter with grilled lemons, fuck yeah

4. Restocking: Truvani’s Chocolate Peanut Butter: Ever since I started my health journey (this will be a topic for another letter), I have had my bomb protein shake for breakfast at least 4x a week which has been a game changer. This is the star of my recipe.

5. Latest snack choice: Norr Organic yogurt —> 14 gr of protein per serving; say what?

If you’re interested in the recipes I get to make, drop a comment, and I’ll start sharing them at the end of each letter. My kitchen is like a lab, and I’m always trying new things and using my friends as guinea pigs when I host dinner parties at home.

Living in the opposite pocket of the world from my family always complicates reunion planning. But about a year ago, thanks to my hyper-organized family, we decided to meet in the middle: Iceland.

A bucket-list destination of mine, and for good reasons. Not only am I a mountain creature, but I am also a fan of (extreme) cold temperatures, and if I can see a glacier and a volcano on the same day, count me in. 

This time, I decided not to do my usual extensive research before the trip, yet even with some knowledge under my belt, I was still caught off guard and frequently surprised. (Who else carefully studies the restaurant’s menu before eating? I know I do) 

When we landed at Reykjavik’s airport, I was a little upset with the realization that we (more like the people) in the States are rude and dirty. Just walking into the public bathrooms confirmed that the Nordics play at another level. How come we don’t have polished wood finishes at LAX?! Why are people so nice?! Many things to learn from them…

The family trip consisted of seven very active days and zero nights, as summer there means 23-hour days (goodbye circadian rhythm). It was ACTIVITY-PACKED, to say the least. 

The days started with a quick, carb-loaded breakfast around 7 a.m., and we were out the door by 8 a.m. to hike mountains, glaciers, volcanoes, ash valleys, you name it. Back to the hotel around 7 p.m. for a quick sauna + hot tub session, then dinner and bed by 10 p.m.  

It was equally parts exhausting and exhilarating. 

If you know me, you know I love rigid schedules, tight workouts, and early nights. But after doing all the things I don’t get to do back home, like eating fries for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and having two glasses of wine a night, my bowel movements started to get all messed up (I still haven't fully recovered from my wedding weekend six weeks ago), my OURA ring was pissed at me, and my recovery was below par. By day 4 of pushing it, I couldn’t ignore the signs my body was sending me. 

I know for a fact that when my body and mind are not fully rested or aligned, I don’t get the best results, and if I don’t actively work around it, I can fall into old and negative patterns. 

Of course, on the day that I felt the most tired, we took the most challenging hike of the trip. The hike would be around 3 hours long, with some elevation gain, and as always, the guides gave us two options. Option A: take a shortcut to lunch and aim for the chiller, flatter version of the route, or Option B: opt in for the more “technical” route, which was longer, higher, and more “exposed.” When I asked the guide what he meant by “exposed,” he said that the ridges up there were somewhat narrow and not designed for those afraid of heights. 

I’m afraid of two things: cockroaches and heights. 

And for context, these hikes weren’t Disney hikes. These hikes were fucking extreme, dramatic even. This is where they filmed Game of Thrones, for Christ's sake. 

So if the guide says don’t do it, follow the advice! And, of course, I didn’t. 

During my extensive psychotherapy work over the years, I discovered with my shrink the concept of “Exposure Therapy,” a highly effective technique used to treat anxiety and overcome situations of fear by gradually exposing the patient to the source of fear or anxiety. Emphasis on the word “gradually.” 

What better way to put those billed hours to work than to turn on Strava and choose option B? 

Before I knew it, I was climbing with just a fifth of the group: my husband, my 26-year-old daredevil cousin, my ultra-fit uncle, and our local guide.

The rest of the group and all the ladies were on their jolly way down, enjoying their vacation and probably getting extra ice cream while waiting for us. Meanwhile, I was working on my “growth” while running on empty. 

As the altitude increased, so did my anxiety. On our way to the summit, I kept repeating my mantra, “Feet don’t fail me now,” and clenched my hands into fists repeatedly, yet despite my efforts, the void persisted, and I couldn’t shake off the fear.

When we reached the peak, I was overwhelmed with emotions and the vastness around us, but part of the work was to control my reaction and keep it contained. We were all safe, and there wasn’t a better view. I sat down on a rock, closed my eyes, and allowed my nervous system to reboot. I felt two tears trace quietly down my face. I was proud, I was grateful, and I felt very much alive. These emotions were there for a reason, right?! To remind me that I had the capacity to feel?! That I was alive?! I said those things to myself as I realized that was only half of it and that the fun part was next: going down the hill and facing the precipice. 

Nothing was left to do but watch my steps, continue breathing, and ignore the cliff on my left. If I stayed focused and close to the group, I knew I'd be back soon, turning this into a funny dinner table story. Then Tomy, the daredevil previously mentioned, who was clearly enjoying the elevation, decided to recite Dr Seuss in this ridiculous broken Irish accent, as he did in the years he was a counselor at the summer camp we all attended. Everyone (except me) burst out laughing. 

While reciting what seemed like an endless poem, he strayed from the trail and walked along the edge, looking like Jack Sparrow—carefree, erratic, and unsteady. This triggered a full-blown panic attack in me, thinking that at any minute, he was going to trip and fall. But again, I kept my composure after telling him to “FUCKING WATCH YOUR STEP,” he asked me to relax, insisting there was no need to worry. 

I reminded myself that love is freedom and that I needed to let him do him. 

When we got back, I kissed the ground and promised myself to change my approach to exposure therapy and do it GRADUALLY next time. 

Later that night, as expected, I told the not-so-funny story at the dinner table about how I thought the hike was extremely dangerous and had a low-key anxiety attack while Tomy and everyone else took it lightly. But he and my husband assured me that even though we were at an altitude and faced potential risks, we were never truly vulnerable. 

Perhaps my poor recovery, notable constipation, and set of phobias blurred my vision and distorted my reality. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad, but because I was dealing with my own internal climb, I wasn’t fully equipped to see things for what they were. 

Have you ever overracted or snapped, only to later realize that you were maybe hungry, stressed, or had a bad night's sleep? What can we do to control the damage proactively? I’m still figuring that out, but repeating my mantra and clenching my hands into fists definitely helped me enjoy the view. 

If you’re considering visiting Iceland, please shoot me a message, and I’ll happily share more of my experience. This was by far the most memorable, spectacular trip of my life. The company was excellent, as well as Iceland. 

🍒🍒 Some of the things I was into that week:

• 🎧 Music: If you’re a fan of The Bear and Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross, then I’m sure you enjoyed this one being played on a loop (iykyk)

• On my wishlist: Most of the restaurants we visited had one thing in common apart from excellent food: Their plates were from SERAX.

💌 Till next time! All my love,

Ana Elena

Creating this two-part piece was particularly challenging because I couldn't sit still for more than five minutes without rushing to the bathroom (it was brutal). I'm also a firm believer that important things can't be rushed, so thank you for your patience.

So, let’s go back to it: After surviving the chaotic lines of immigration at the Miami airport, I called my friend Maria, who kindly offered to pick me up at the airport and invited me to stay at her place while we handled my mother's crisis in Bonaire.

When I arrived at her apartment, there were balloons and a cake from Publix on the kitchen counter. It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, but no amount of sugar or dopamine could ease my mind or distract me from what was happening.
My mom had been unconscious for eight hours, and the prognosis was grim.

My family moved mountains and did the impossible until finally, one hospital in Bogotá agreed to take my mom in. We arranged for her transfer, and I flew out of Miami at dawn. I hadn’t slept or eaten, and by the time I got to Colombia, I was a walking zombie.

When I arrived at the hospital, it had been almost 24 hours since I last exchanged words with my mom, but it felt like a lifetime ago. I reunited with my family—my godmother, grandmother, and aunt—the closest thing to the mafia, and they did their best to update me in simple Spanish on what was happening.

Elena had a brain aneurysm that exploded and caused massive injury to her brain, putting her in a coma - there was nothing to be done. The doctors explained that what happened was inevitable, and the outcome would’ve been the same if she had been in that tiny nurse’s office or at the most sophisticated OR. 

As I saw the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth, I could barely comprehend what he explained. The incandescent white lights were blinding, and I struggled to breathe, feeling as if I had been hit in the head. I was about to faint, so I sat down, covered my ears, and closed my eyes. 

How the fuck did this happen? She was absolutely fine. Now she’s breathing through a tube? This was like a bad episode from Grey’s Anatomy.
I had to find the courage that I didn't have to step into her room and face her. Seeing her was something I needed to do alone, and for the first time in my life, I experienced fear in the rawest of forms. 

When I stepped in, it was quiet—just some beeps and hums coming from the machines, but it was like the energy was sucked out of the room. My body was paralyzed when I first saw her silhouette on the bed, and I didn’t want to come any closer, but I had to touch her to register what was happening. Just like fresh paint on the wall, you know you shouldn’t, but you touch it anyway. 

When I approached her, she looked surprisingly peaceful; she still had a little bit of her tan from the beach, and even though her hair was tucked in under a bandana, I could still see some of her golden locks. She looked familiar, but she felt like a stranger to me. 

The only consolation in this mess was that the doctors described what happened to Elena as a “Perfect Storm.” It was clean, massive, flawless. She didn’t feel any pain, and more importantly, she never knew what hit her. She was going to fade away like a candle burning out. Slowly but surely - and just as it happened, she surrendered during her deep sleep.

If you ask me how I want to go, in all honesty, I would say just like my mom: painless and quick.

I can’t say that the last time I saw my mom was in that sterile hospital room. Whoever was in that bed wasn’t her. My mom was where she wanted to be: by the ocean in our favorite place in the world. Her last memories on earth were at E’horizon, not during her short residency at that hospital room in Bogotá. 

Elena is survived by her mother, sister, and daughter, who will later spend years forging the relationship they never had before her departure. She left a gigantic compilation of recipes and a stunning collection of size 0 jeans that I had to give away because, I could never. But apart from the material baggage, as she was a world-class hoarder, my mother left a legacy you will discover in future letters, as I am still trying to detangle it. 

It took me years to understand and come to terms with the void she left. For a long time, I felt completely unprepared for the life ahead of me. My safety net vanished overnight, leaving me feeling exposed and powerless in the face of crucial decisions. Yet, her influence shaped who I am today and helped me take ownership of every little piece of my life.

Speaking of crucial decisions, she missed a big one last week: my wedding. 
And I think it was for the best; otherwise, she might have been an unbearable momzilla, and I probably would have handled the whole situation terribly (I'm proud to say that witnesses can confirm I was the most composed, chill bride, and nobody had more fun than me - maybe Tomás iykyk.)
Even though she wasn't there, her presence was ubiquitous. A hailstorm struck during our ceremony, and thunder punctuated my brother-in-law’s sassy speech. It was the perfect atmosphere for the most unforgettable night of my life. While many brides say that, I assure you everyone felt the electricity, too.
It was pure magic.

💌 Thank you for sticking around during these emotional letters. The next ones will be a tad lighter, fun, and (maybe) useful. It would’ve been weird not to address Elena in some way, as she’s a big part of the origin story 💌

We decided to plan a short trip with two of my closest friends to Bonaire, a small island in the Caribbean, where my grandparents bought a beach shack in the ’70s. The showers barely worked, there were mice in the kitchen, and the decor was kept intact for over 30 years, but E’horizon, our house, was heaven on earth. 

This house was where I grew up with my cousins, learned how to swim, bike, and built most of my core memories - it was also the place where my grandfather died from a heart attack while sipping a Vodka on the rocks during his daily sunset swim. 

E’horizon was an emotionally loaded territory, to say the least, yet it felt like the perfect place to have this small reunion and turn a year older.

Two very turbulent flights later, I finally landed in Bonaire.
The excitement of arriving made the shitty weather and the recent breakup with my college boyfriend seem trivial - like brushing away a mosquito at a picnic. My mom and my friends were there to celebrate my egotistical ass for an entire weekend; what more could I ask for? 

But do you know when there’s a permanent feeling you can’t seem to shake off? It feels like a nod in your throat or a stomachache.

There was this electricity in the air, a feeling of euphoria that I still can’t quite describe, but the entire weekend felt… I still can’t describe it 12 years later. 

Maybe it was because I felt like a peer to my mom rather than her overprotected child. For the first time, we respected one another rather than getting stuck in a power struggle dynamic and truly enjoyed each other’s company. 

For context, I was the product of a successful IVF round in a tumultuous marriage that ended in screams and an absent father.  My mom's greatest wish was to become a mother, and after seven years of trying to get pregnant, she finally did. Then she proceeded to leave her cheating husband’s ass to dedicate her life to raising me.
Talk about dedication. 

During the trip, we did nothing but chill. We spent the days dancing flamenco to Gypsy Kings, going to the supermarket to buy the catch of the day, and doing “Drunk Yoga.” 

The dinner conversations were about sex scandals from my Mom’s teenage years and racy stories from the time she caught my dad cheating and the subsequent events. 

If I am a good storyteller, my mom was even better, and my friends and I were highly entertained.

Elena, opened up to us and showed us a side that I was seeing for the first time. 

Perhaps the years we spent living apart while I was in college gave us the necessary distance to connect, or maybe I was becoming an adult (?) and was able to interact with her in a healthier way. 

I think I’m good at picking up the foreshadowing breadcrumbs in movies. In most, I can absolutely tell what’s going to happen. The music gets more intense, the lighting changes, and then boom - the “unexpected” happens. In retrospect, I think I knew something was about to go down all along. 

On the last evening of the trip, my mom (the best cook I’ve ever met) and my friend Isa (second best cook) prepared the most amazing dinner, and once again, we overextended the conversation until 4 am. At one point in the night, my mom made a toast and expressed that she had reached maximum happiness with all of us there. That if she were to die tomorrow, she would die in peace; she even said she wanted her remains to be scattered where my grandfather died: by the ocean in our favorite place in the world. We all nervously laughed and told her there was no reason to cut her life short. 

The last hours of the trip were a bit of a blur, but I remembered that nothing seemed to flow that day. Nothing clicked. We ran out of Venezuelan cigarettes (panic!), we all had issues with our flights out of Bonaire, and my mom was a fucking wreck. 

Every time we said goodbye, she entered a frantic state, but that day, it seemed to hit her harder than ever. I was the first to fly out, and she and my friends drove me to the airport to say goodbye. Right before the gate, my mom started balling out, and I remembered being embarrassed, borderline annoyed with the fact - I was like, “MOM RELAX, I’ll see you in two fucking months; stop making a scene” I hugged her, and boarded my plane ready to part ways (cold).

When I landed in Miami for my connecting flight to DC, two disturbing voicemails were waiting to be heard on my cell. 

The first one was from my mom. She sounded drunk and confused. I could barely understand what she was saying, as if she had a hot potato in her mouth. The second was from Francisco, my friend I left behind with her in Bonaire, saying to call him back immediately. 

I remember standing in what felt like the longest immigration line ever when I called them back. Squatting between people, trying to avoid the immigration officers catching me on my phone, I finally connected with Francisco. In under 45 seconds, he explained that shortly after I left, my mom had “a seizure or something” and fainted.

Elena could be a bit dramatic, but this seemed extreme. When I asked him to put her on the phone, he said, 'The thing is... she hasn’t woken up.' I was so confused. I left four hours ago; ‘What do you mean she hasn't woken up yet?!’ 

My entire family mobilized to get my mom out of the tiniest nurse's office on the island and into a real hospital. In the meantime, I had no other option but to stay in Miami and await further instructions. This was in 2011, during the height of Venezuela’s communist period under President Hugo Chavez. Hospitals were in terrible conditions, and it wasn’t safe to take her there in such a fragile state.

Out of desperation, feeling the clock against us, we decided, as a family, to fly my mom to Bogotá, Colombia, where my aunt, her only sister, was living at the time. I took the first flight out of Miami, and when I landed in Bogotá, the immigration officer said, “Happy birthday! What brought you to Colombia? Your 21st birthday?” 

I answered, “I think my mom just died.” 

Somehow, I knew that the last time I kissed her goodbye at that gate in Bonaire was the last time I was going to feel her warmth. 

There’s more to this story, so please stay tuned for Part 2.

💌 I’m turning 34 today, and it’s my mom’s 13th anniversary - I’m also getting married next week, so it’s been an eventful month. Please bear with me as I find the courage to sit down and write Part 2. 💌

🍒🍒 Today’s snack time will be different: short and sweet.

It felt like an insult to share my browsing history or shopping links, yet this is the playlist I listen to whenever I want to connect to my mom.

It‘s also great for cooking, hosting, and reminiscing.

I was then living in Miami, and for the first time, I was actually experiencing the life you see in movies: a young woman at an ad agency, making decent money and feeling care-free.
Big failed marriage aside, life seemed fun, and I felt like a winner.

Still, I was terrified of this newfound freedom - I had too much power in my hands and I didn’t want to fuck it up - ‘freedom is power, and power is responsibility’ (maybe I didn’t need a cat to understand how responsibility works). I was raised believing you must pay some sort of tax when you have fun because life isn’t just about seeking gratification; life is about sacrifice and staying humble and grounded. So to stay on track, I established a punishment/reward system:

The punishment/reward system was my way to feel safe, and make sure I was accountable - no parents to ask you how was your day or a sibling to check in? no problem, follow the cheat sheet and you’ll be fine! you won’t end up broke, ugly and fat or found dead in a ditch somewhere! - Because the overall feeling was that I became an independent, lonely adult overnight. 
I went from being married with an extensive in-law family and community that came with it (turns out this community was mostly conditional), to living a very lonely life, far from the few family members I have left.

Yet, somehow, this solitude didn’t feel uncomfortable. I liked being alone and met my social needs with work-friends during the week and friend-friends on weekends.

Spending a lot of time alone gave me space to reconnect to parts of me (the good and bad) that had been burried during my marriage, supressed beneath layers of people pleasing and efforts to fit it. These buried parts started to rise to the surface and some of them were intense to confront.

My punctuality was impeccable, and my disciplined, planning-oriented personality truly thrived, but I became harsher with myself and my relationship with food and control grew more complex;  I would party and binge eat on weekends, only to spend the following days consuming canned tuna and isolating myself at home as a form of 'damage control' — hello, eating disorder!

I was never touchy-feely and became even more resistant to love or affection back then. Despite engaging in the occasional one-night stand while traveling, I generally found anything related to love tacky. And I even needed some time apart from friends. I've always maintained a close-knit circle of friends, but after prolonged group hangouts, I needed a breather -  If the party extended into the after-hours, I would call my Uber home, eager for my bed, skin routine, and space. 

One night out, I chose to be more flexible and stayed longer to avoid the inevitable 'party pooper' label from my friends. In response, one of them, just to fuck with me, started singing this ANNOYING reggaeton song, praising me for sticking around.

I was SO offended. How could they suggest I was a Cat Woman (what does that even mean?!) trapped in a body that needed to loosen up?! My friend asked me to take it as a compliment. He said everyone thought I sometimes acted like a cat: distant yet warm, independent, charming, and flirtatious (?)(cringe). This was by no means an insult but more of an identity that I needed to embrace, and after this godforsaken episode, they started to refer to me as “La Gata.” The nickname stuck, and I couldn’t escape it.

It took me a minute, but I warmed to the idea. Perhaps I am like a cat, having grown up with one? I do love to drink milk and eat seafood. I had peculiar attachment styles and although I hate it, I craved attention. I began to accept this newly appointed identity.

Over time during this cat-evolution, I polished and refined the traits that served me and discarded the ones that didn’t. I found love again, and I don’t think I could be more loving and caring. My attachment styles shifted towards the healthier side of the balance, and I continue to chug down oysters no matter the price (Great for the skin, terrible for whoever’s splitting the bill with me). More importantly, I kissed my punishment/reward system goodbye. I might act like a cat sometimes, but I’m no pet that needs to be grounded or treated.

There was no need to be a cynic to protect my feelings, and I didn’t need to feel guilty about having fun or be fearful that I was about to ruin everything. Because I wasn’t. I was working really hard to carve my own path, and did the best I could - even if I didn't always recognize it. But I was lucky enough to have people I cared about during those moments of rediscovery who noticed things that I, being too close, overlooked.

Thanks for tagging along.

Until next time. Besos - Ana

💌 These words are dedicated to all my friends who stood by me during those years. You know who you are. 💌

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🍒🍒 OK, it’s snack time: My browsing history + stuff I liked last week:

I was down with the flu and spent probably 10 days stuck in our house in my PJs, but here’s what I did from my couch:

• 🎧 Music: Two of my all-time favorite bands: Justice 🤝🏼 Tame Impala

• 🛒 In my cart: Soft Services hand cream

• 🛒 Restocking: Cymbiotika’s Magnesium oil

• 📺 The only binging I do these days —> TV: Mr. and Mrs. Smith: If you’re like me and love Daniel Glover, don’t even think about it. I totally judged the show by its cover but was pleasantly surprised. Plus, Sarah Paulson makes an appearance, and there’s nothing that woman does wrong.

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I moved to LA a little over three years ago, and people often ask me if I like it, and my answer remains the same. 

In short, I say it’s been an acquired taste. 

In long, I compare cities I’ve lived in with guys I’ve dated: “New York, is that super toxic, hot ex-boyfriend. The sex is great, it feels dangerously fun, but after a weekend with him, you feel depleted, and you need a month to recover. Miami is that guy who was trash when you dated him, but after you left, he got hot all of a sudden; now everybody wants Miami!
LA, on the other hand… Great guy! Your friends and family loooove him, he treats you well, you’re at your healthiest, and you even peaked at 31! But somehow… you don’t see a future with him. LA is a great transition guy who could lead you to the right one. 

One could argue that things get lost in translation here (especially if your background is Latin and you speak in metaphors and sayings like me - como le traduzco a un Americano qué significa “tira la piedra, esconde la mano?”), But we can all agree that you must get lost to find yourself. Despite my contradictory feelings towards the city, I have to admit that I’ve found a new part of myself during this transition period.

Now, I’m not going to get into much detail on my first letter because a) it will spoil the fun and b) it will take at least 10,000 words even to scratch the surface, but all I’m going to say is that what felt like a transition slowly became my ~somewhat~ permanent reality. 

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About four weeks ago, I got laid off from my job, and I didn’t even sweat it (OK, fine, maybe I cried just a little)—“It’s not you, Ana, it’s us! We love you; you’re a top performer! Thank you for your years of service. Goodbye.”
Honestly, I was a little relieved, considering 92% of my attention was focused on creating/building my child Pikora (more on this later), and working East Coast hours while on the West Coast was becoming taxing. 

I saved my severance, took a nap in the middle of the day, and enjoyed not being glued to my Slack. I felt REFRESHED. 

But then, five days later, I was barefoot, walked into a sprinkler, and broke a toe.

Who knew such a tiny, often overlooked part of the human body was so important for basic functions such as making coffee? If you think about it, you have to stand to make yourself a cup of coffee (una cosa no tiene que ver con la otra, pero mira que si), and standing hurts when you break a toe, a lot.

After I stepped out of the Urgent Care, I sat in my car and proceeded to send alarming and ominous texts to my friend group saying, “I’m not coming to my wedding” and “Se jodío todo” Yes, on top of everything, I’m getting married in 6 weeks - una raya mas al tigre!/ another stripe to the tiger!

How come I, who has dealt with so much emotional baggage in my life, am losing my mind over a broken toe? That’s when I discovered that I had no emotional diversification. 

For context, when I moved here, I was dealing with leaving my community behind in Miami, getting over an eating disorder, changing career paths in the middle of a pandemic, and setting the foundations of the first real, healthy relationship I've had in my life. During my adjustment period, I found that staying active, no matter the shape or form, was therapy to me - apart from actual therapy. Staying in constant movement was my constant. 

I no longer saw exercising as a form of punishment or a tedious task that needed to be completed but more as an act of self-preservation. The minute I was not able to move or stay on my feet, I realized that I put all my mental health eggs in one basket. Big mistake. 

Tomás, my partner, who is a legit spiritual dude (never had Instagram to post how long his meditation streak was, has completed multiple Vipassana courses and meditates an average of ~25 minutes a day +bonus points: reads me Thich Nhat Hanh before going to bed) was like, but Ana, this is a good moment to try meditating again …I almost threw the ice pack to his face, but I - yet again - accepted his invitation to Waking Up (Mainly because Sam Harris gives me the hots, and Tomás knows this)

But after multiple attempts to meditate, I decided that I needed another outlet because, according to Dr. Ronnie Alfandari, I have to remain HORIZONTAL for six weeks. I could stay put and breathe in, but my nervous system required me to let energy out. Consider this the relocation of my “Morning Pages” (iykyk)—which are meant to be daily and private—but will now be available for everyone to read, if anyone cares.
After careful examination, Substack appears to be the least cringy of all mediums. So hey, why not?

Having said this, many things are coming in this never-ending transition, and I’d like to believe I’m in a perpetual state of impermanence. These pages/letters/lines (still figuring out how frequent these will be, but they need to be consistent, and I have to post them for accountability purposes) will be particularly interesting if you: 

1. Like people and love juicy stories 

2. Are interested in reading anecdotes from a founder launching a new business  (Say hola to Pikora!)

3. Love food and cooking (this will be connected to Pikora) 

4. Have a history with, or are currently dealing with, eating disorders ^^ interesting how 2, 3, and 4 are intertwined 

5. Occasionally seek instant gratification online

6. Have superb taste in music and/or consider yourself to be a music snob

7. Dealt with grief at some point in life 

Then you have arrived at the right place. 
I hope you (like me) find yourself in transition, no matter what that looks like.

Thank you for spending your time with me,

Muchos besos - Ana

🍒🍒 To finish up, here are some snacks for you, aka my browsing history + saved folders: 

• 👀 Oh my: Bode x Nike Collab dropping 4/18 6 pm EST

• 🎧 Music: Ravelena (my Raver Alter Ego) presents:

• 🎧 Music: From the Fore! Archives:

• 🎤 Pod du jour: The Ezra Klein Show: How Should I be Using A.I Right Now? 

• 🛒 On my cart: Rocky’s Matcha April’s releases: Rocky's Matcha Houjicha 

• Shopping List: My second Mother, Ina, is launching a new book, her Memoir BE READY WHEN THE LUCK HAPPENS, on October 1st.