My mom was a force to be reckoned with, but she was defenseless against Margaret and I definitely noticed.
#generationaltrauma #cyclebreaker #inlaws #power #family #survivor
http://invisiblymisdiagnosed.com/2026/01/09/40-s-m-2/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social
The First Act of Defiance: Why The Forgotten Bruja Begins With a Door Closing
The prologue of The Forgotten Bruja does not open with magic.
It opens with a word.
Cabeza dura.
Hard-headed.
Not strong-willed. Not resolute. Not a woman who knows her own mind. Just difficult. Defective. Something that needs to be corrected.
That distinction matters, because from the very first page, Isadora Espinal is not being framed as a girl who doesn’t understand her destiny. She is a woman who refuses it.
This prologue takes place in June 1958, but its emotional terrain is timeless: a mother gripping the last thread of control, a daughter standing at the edge of a life she has been warned not to want, and a house heavy with secrets that have never been spoken aloud.
This Is Not a Chosen-One Moment
Isadora is not being “called” to anything here. There are no visions, no omens, no whispered invitations from the beyond. What she is doing is far more dangerous.
She is leaving.
And in families like the Espinals, leaving is treated as betrayal.
What makes this opening so intentional is that the conflict is not framed as good versus evil. It is framed as inheritance versus autonomy. Altagracia does not threaten Isadora with punishment. She threatens her with guilt. With duty. With unfinished warnings and half-truths. With the same tactics Isadora has lived under her entire life:
Use this herb.
Say this prayer.
Don’t cross that threshold.
But never why. Never the truth.
That silence is the real antagonist in the prologue.
The Violence of Withholding
One of the most devastating moments in the opening isn’t when Altagracia grabs Isadora’s hand or calls her a cuero. It’s when she stops herself mid-sentence.
“He may be dead,” Altagracia says, “but he is not gone. And I can’t—”
Can’t what?
That pause is doing enormous narrative work. It tells us everything about the world Isadora grew up in. Knowledge was never shared. It was rationed. Power was never explained. It was enforced.
And Isadora is done paying for that.
When she says, “I am not responsible to finish what you started,” she isn’t just rejecting her mother. She is rejecting an entire lineage of silent suffering and coerced obedience.
Queerness as Freedom, Not Scandal
Altagracia frames Isadora’s departure as moral collapse: another country, another language, being with women, living however she wants. But Isadora never argues the accusation.
She doesn’t defend herself because she doesn’t believe she’s done anything wrong.
That refusal is radical.
In 1958.
In Willowshade.
In a family built on fear and secrecy.
The prologue makes it clear: Isadora’s queerness is not the problem. It is the escape hatch.
The Suitcase Tells the Truth
The suitcase matters.
It belonged to Juanita — the sister who left, who lived, who returned but never truly came back to Willowshade. Isadora isn’t just leaving her mother. She’s following a lineage of women who tried to step outside the boundaries and paid different prices for it.
Inside the suitcase are sensible clothes and The Second Sex. This is not a runaway fantasy. This is preparation. Thought. Intention.
And when the suitcase bursts open, spilling its contents across the floor, it mirrors exactly what Altagracia fears: exposure. Everything laid bare. Nothing hidden anymore.
A Threshold That Pushes Back
The final image of the prologue is quiet and brutal. The house resists Isadora — just once — before letting her go.
That matters.
This house has taken everything. It has given nothing back. And yet it does not release her easily. That single moment of resistance foreshadows what Isadora will spend the rest of her life grappling with: you can leave a legacy behind, but it does not stop reaching for you.
When Isadora steps into the sunlight and says goodbye without turning back, the relief is real — but it is not resolution.
It is a beginning.
This prologue is not about magic. It is about the first act of refusal. The first woman in the Cerradora line who says, No. Not like this. Not at this cost.
And history will not forgive her for it.
Want to read the prologue for yourself?
The opening scene of The Forgotten Bruja isn’t just an introduction. It’s a rupture. A door slamming shut in 1958 that echoes through generations of Espinal women.
When you join my newsletter, you’ll receive exclusive access to the full prologue, along with behind-the-scenes reflections on the Las Cerradoras series, early excerpts, and essays about inheritance, silence, queerness, and reclaiming power.
If stories about women who refuse obedience, challenge legacy, and choose themselves speak to you, this space was made for you.
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#DominicanAmericanLiterature #feministFiction #GenerationalTrauma #indieAuthorBlog #LasCerradorasSeries #LatineHorror #magicalRealism #PsychologicalHorror #queerHistoricalFiction #TheForgottenBruja
My mom was a force to be reckoned with, but she was defenseless against Margaret and I definitely noticed.
#generationaltrauma #cyclebreaker #inlaws #power #family #survivor
http://invisiblymisdiagnosed.com/2025/12/26/40-s-m/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social
This popped up in my Instagram, and when I look at my parents, siblings, the dynamics between us and generational trauma (my father survived WWII, but almost died because of starvation, my mother was shortly born after the end of the war)… AND my chronical mental illness/neurodivergence, as well as my spiritual endeavours, I can second this.
#spirituality #generationaltrauma #chronicillness #neurodivergence
essential lesson in taking accountability for wrongdoing, making amends & make restitution to your #self & others, your fellow earthlings & ancestors #HolyPeople.
#recovery #GenerationalTrauma #SpiritualHealth #FirstNations
🖤☮️ & 🏴
essential lesson in taking accountability for wrongdoing, making amends & make restitution to your #self & others, your fellow earthlings & ancestors #HolyPeople.
#recovery #GenerationalTrauma #SpiritualHealth #FirstNations
🖤☮️ & 🏴
#TheParanormalFiles: colin & his dad are in one of the most notorious prisons on earth, where the men locked up there have suffered such horrific conditions & violence, the walls are dripping with misory.
#GifsArtidote: i have been to prison & i understand from personal experience & my #CrimPsy study how anyone can end up in a hellhole like that.
this system of death we live in is causing a pandemic of narcissistic behaviour. when you're born into a poor, toxic & dysfunctional family and all you know is violence & hate, you're only just surviving by standing your ground & use violence by any means necessary.
we are all suffering collective #CPTSD with immense #GenerationalTrauma, we need the opposite of hate, which off course is 🖤
..this system of death we live in is causing a pandemic of narcissistic behaviour. when you're born into a poor, toxic & dysfunctional family and all you know is violence & hate, you're only just surviving by standing your ground & use violence by any means necessary.
we are all suffering collective #CPTSD with immense #GenerationalTrauma, we need the opposite of hate, which off course is 🖤
Book Review: Salt Bones by Jennifer Givhan — A Haunting, Generational Masterpiece I Can’t Stop Thinking About
Five stars… and honestly I’m still processing…What did I just read?!
Jennifer Givhan didn’t just write a book. She cracked open the chest of generational trauma, held up the ribs, and asked us to look inside. Salt Bones is one of those rare reads that is dark, atmospheric, unsettling, and emotionally layered in a way only a Latina author rooted in culture, myth, and lived experience can deliver. I’m blown away. I really am.
I’ve been on a kick lately with horror and gothic-leaning stories by Latina authors, partly because that’s the atmosphere I live in while writing The Ordinary Bruja and the Las Cerradoras trilogy, and partly because these books always go beyond fear. They dig into identity, family wounds, unspoken truths, and the complicated ways we inherit stories that never belonged to us. Salt Bones carries that same DNA.
This book starts slow, but not in a way that feels wasted. It’s purposeful. Act One eases you into the mother-daughter dynamic, the family’s strange habits, the odd tension that doesn’t have a name yet. You aren’t sure why things feel “off” but you can sense something brewing under the surface. And then Act Two hits… and suddenly every quiet detail from the beginning clicks into place. I swear, I wanted to go back and reread the first half just to look at everything with new eyes.
The main character, Mal, wrecked me. She is one of the most complex, painfully human characters I’ve read in a while. And part of why she hit me so hard is because she mirrored pieces of myself… especially the parts I’ve worked so hard to heal. Her need for control, her desire to protect everyone at all costs, her inability to tell the truth until she can make it “pretty”… I know that woman. I’ve been that woman. Reading her was like holding up a mirror to the scars I’ve carried since childhood and the ways I tried to parent perfectly only to realize that perfection creates its own harm.
That’s what Givhan does so brilliantly here. She uses dark mythical beings, superstition, and supernatural elements as metaphors for trauma, guilt, and silence. The horror isn’t just the creatures in the shadows. It’s the generational secrets, the suffocating loyalty to elders, the way so many Latine families protect the wrong people for the wrong reasons. It’s painfully real. Painfully familiar.
And then, when the daughter goes missing, everything explodes. Skeletons fall out of multiple closets. Every assumption melts. Ma unravels the past thread by thread until the truth finally reveals itself… and the truth is devastating. Because Mal has spent her entire life carrying guilt that was never hers. A burden placed on her by the very people who claimed to love her. That part? That part felt so real it almost hurt to read.
What I love most is that the author doesn’t glorify the cycle. She shows it honestly, messily, culturally… but she also gives us a roadmap out. The ending, and especially the epilogue, is hopeful in the way sunlight feels after days of rain. Not “perfect bow on top” hopeful, but “realistic healing is possible” hopeful. Mal sets boundaries. She separates herself. She chooses a life where she can breathe. And it feels earned.
Thematically, this book has everything that makes me obsessed with Latina horror:
• complex mother-daughter dynamics
• generational silence and guilt
• supernatural myth woven into trauma
• culture as both comfort and curse
• atmospheric writing that lingers
When I tell you this book will stay with me… whew. I already know it will. It’s one of those novels that forces you to confront your past while imagining a healthier future. It’s dark in all the right places and tender where it counts.
If you love gothic, horror-adjacent stories filled with mythical elements, cultural nuance, morally messy families, and emotional depth, read this. Immediately. I need people to talk to about this book because I am still flabbergasted by what Jennifer Givhan pulled off.
This is an easy, unwavering, deeply felt 5 stars.
#atmosphericReads #bookRecommendations #BookReview #darkFiction #GenerationalTrauma #gothicFiction #JenniferGivhan #LatinaHorror #LatineLiterature #motherDaughterStories #PsychologicalHorror #SaltBones #supernaturalBooks
think and grow
Protyus A. Gendher
Johanny Ortega
Andrea
Gif's Artidote
poison punk