When Speaking Truth Makes You the Problem

This is raw. It’s fresh. And it’s sitting heavy in my chest, so I’m going to write it the only way I know how: honestly.

It started with something that, on the surface, looks small. I was watching hair salon videos, the kind that flood social media feeds, and I made an observation to my husband that I’ve made many times before. So many Latinas are obsessed with dyeing their hair blonde. Not just lighter. Blonde-blonde. And I said how wrong that feels to me, especially because that color often clashes with our natural olive, brown, or golden undertones.

I know because I was that girl.

When I was younger, I dyed my hair blonde desperately. I wanted it so badly. At the time, I didn’t fully understand why. Now I do. It was the media I consumed. Telenovelas. Commercials. TV shows on Univision. Over and over, the Latinas centered on screen were the European-looking ones. Light skin. Straight hair. Fine features. The Black and Indigenous Latinas were erased, sidelined, or turned into stereotypes. The message was subtle but constant: this is what beauty looks like.

That message sinks in early.

My husband encouraged me to share this thought with my mother-in-law, so I did. I explained it calmly, factually, without raising my voice or attacking anyone. She responded by saying something along the lines of, “Oh, that’s just young girls and moms who let them.”

And that’s when I said what needed to be said.

I explained that it’s deeper than parenting choices. That yes, parents matter, but so do systems. Society. Government. The church. The long-standing Eurocentric beauty standards that have been pushed onto Latine communities for generations. I pointed out that when little girls with brown skin, like my stepdaughter who is Blexican, consume that messaging, they can internalize the belief that they are not enough as they are.

That’s when my husband cut me off.

“That’s enough. Stop.”

In front of his mother.

He said I was making her feel bad. That I was “talking at her.”

I stopped talking, but something inside me cracked.

I went back to my work and tried to shake it off, but the feeling wouldn’t settle. That familiar, ugly feeling crept in again. The one that tells me I’m an outsider in my own home. That my voice is too much. That my passion is inconvenient. That when his family is around, I need to make myself smaller.

I couldn’t sit with that.

So I went outside, found him alone, and said what I needed to say.

“Don’t you ever do that again. You made me feel like an outsider in my own home.”

He deflected. Said that wasn’t what he meant.

I asked him plainly, “Did you tell me to stop?”

He nodded.

I told him how that felt. How being corrected in front of his mother felt disrespectful. How I always make a point to pull him aside privately if there’s an issue, because that’s basic respect. How all I was asking for was the same courtesy.

I started crying. Angry tears. The kind that come when you’re tired of explaining why your voice matters.

I told him I wasn’t being disrespectful. I wasn’t yelling. I wasn’t insulting his mother. I was having an important conversation that many Latine elders need to hear. But instead of engaging, his family defaults to changing the subject. Food. Small talk. Safe topics. And that’s never been me. I don’t skirt around hard truths. I confront them head-on.

He apologized and deflected at the same time.

“You take everything so seriously.”

And that sentence hurt more than he realized.

Yes. I do. And he knows that. That seriousness comes from lived experience. From knowing what silence costs. From understanding that colorism and racism inside the Latine community don’t magically disappear just because we’re uncomfortable talking about them.

I told him plainly that he had effectively shut me up. That now I felt unsafe speaking freely. And I asked him if he understood how damaging that is in a marriage.

To his credit, he eventually owned it. He apologized. Fully.

But I was still angry.

I told him very clearly: “You will never do this to me again.”

Then I told him what I needed to move forward.

I wanted him to take accountability. Not privately. Publicly. I wanted him to go back inside and explain to his mother what he did wrong to his wife. Because I refuse to be the only one sitting in discomfort while everyone else gets to feel fine.

He did it.

And now things are uncomfortable.

Good.

I don’t believe in censoring myself, especially when I communicate without insults, without foul language, and with facts. I don’t believe in tiptoeing around conversations about colorism and racism in Latine homes. If we can’t talk about these things with our own families, in our own living rooms, what hope is there of dismantling them anywhere else?

Silence protects no one. Comfort maintains harm. And I am done being the one asked to swallow truth so others don’t have to feel uneasy.

If my presence disrupts, maybe it’s because the conversation is overdue.

Quiet Isn’t a Flaw: Being an Introvert in a Loud Latine World

Let’s talk about something that rarely gets named out loud in Latine spaces: being an introvert and being misunderstood, shamed, or outright dismissed for it.

This isn’t theoretical for me. It’s lived.

It came up during a dinner conversation with my mother-in-law, a Latine elder who, like many in our community, carries ideas that were passed down without question. The conversation drifted toward my stepson’s plans for having a social life once he moves into our house. I laughed a little and said, “Ohhh, you had a whole plan!”

And then it clicked.

I looked at him and said, “Ohhh… you need people to recharge, don’t you?”

He nodded.

That made sense to me immediately. He’s an extrovert. People energize him. He feels better after being around others. That’s how his nervous system works.

So I shared something about myself.

“I don’t,” I said. “I need solitude.”

The conversation had been happening in English, so I translated it for my MIL and tried to make it simpler.

“He’s an extrovert,” I said, pointing to my stepson.
“I’m an introvert,” I said, pointing to myself.
“And I believe he is too,” I added, pointing to my son.

My son nodded to confirm.

That’s when my MIL’s face scrunched up.

“So you mean to tell me you like being holed up in your room?” she asked.

Both my son and I nodded vigorously. Yes. Exactly that.

But I heard the tone. It wasn’t curiosity. It was judgment. Shame wrapped in disbelief. Like something must be wrong with us for needing space instead of people. Like solitude was a sign that something was wrong with us, not simply a preference.

Then she tried to disprove it.

“Well, he plays games online,” she said, implying that meant he wasn’t really an introvert.

And that’s when I had to pause and explain something that feels obvious to me but apparently isn’t in many Latine conversations.

Online and in-person socializing are not the same.

They require different kinds of energy.

I socialize online a lot. I talk. I connect. I share. But I know I can unplug at any time. I don’t have someone physically in front of me. I don’t have to manage facial expressions, body language, small talk, or polite smiling. I don’t have to perform enjoyment.

In person, especially in group settings, I am masking.

I am showing a version of myself that is palatable, agreeable, and socially acceptable. And that takes energy. A lot of it.

She still didn’t quite believe me. I could see it in her face. But I let the conversation go. Not because I was wrong, but because I was tired.

And that moment stayed with me.

Why is this so hard to understand in Latine spaces?

Growing up, my experience of “community” was loud family gatherings, fiestas, birthdays, holidays that lasted all day, conversations layered on top of conversations, music blasting, people dropping in unannounced. And for many people, that feels like love.

For me, it always felt like a chore.

Not because I don’t love my family. Not because I’m antisocial. But because my body doesn’t recharge in noise. It drains.

I am comfortable with the people I live with. The people I see every day. The ones I’ve built safety with. Around them, I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t have to brace for judgment.

Outside of that circle, I’m on stage.

And yes, I’ve gotten good at it.

I know how to socialize. I know how to hold conversations. I know how to navigate events, dinners, gatherings, and expectations. That’s a skill I developed, not a preference I chose. But every one of those interactions requires recovery time. Alone time. Silence. Stillness.

There are exceptions.

Bookish events don’t feel like a chore to me. When I’m surrounded by people who love stories, ideas, words, and reflection, I don’t feel like I’m wearing a mask. I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t have to prove I belong. There’s no need to perform when the room already speaks your language.

That’s the difference.

What frustrates me most isn’t having to explain myself. It’s not being believed when I do.

It’s the way introversion is treated as something suspicious in Latine culture. Like quiet equals sadness. Like solitude equals loneliness. Like needing space equals rejection of family or community.

And it doesn’t.

Introversion is not a flaw. It’s not disrespect. It’s not coldness. It’s not something to fix.

It’s a different way of being.

So when someone looks at me and says, “You like being holed up in your room?” with judgment in their voice, what they’re really saying is, “Your way of existing makes me uncomfortable.”

And I’m done carrying that discomfort for them.

You don’t get to tell me who I am.
You don’t get to override my lived experience.
You don’t get to shame my nervous system because it doesn’t match yours.

Quiet is not broken.
Solitude is not selfish.
Introversion is not a betrayal of culture.

Some of us love deeply, think quietly, and recharge alone.

And that deserves just as much respect.

Mel Robbins Let Them Theory Explained for You

There’s a theory I came across recently—one that cracked something open inside me. It’s called “The Let Them Theory.” Mel Robbins popularized it in her book, and the idea is simple: if people want to misunderstand you, let them. If they want to leave, let them. If they want to doubt you, let them.

It’s not a theory built on spite. It’s not about proving people wrong or cutting them off with attitude. It’s about release. About turning your energy inward and saying: I’ve got better things to focus on—namely, me.

I didn’t know there was a name for what I’d been practicing in pockets of my life for years, but when I heard it framed this way, I felt seen.

But of course, it gets complicated when you throw culture into the mix.

Cultural Expectations Don’t Let You “Let Them”

If you come from a collectivist culture—like many Latine communities—you’re often raised to not let people be. You’re taught to correct, to adjust, to keep the peace, to stay even when it costs you.

• They said something offensive? Be polite.
• They dismissed your boundaries? Be forgiving.
• They questioned your choices? Explain harder.

Because we’re raised to protect the family image. To not make waves. To sacrifice “self” for the greater good, especially when that good is defined by others.

So when I started living by “Let Them,” it felt rebellious. But more than that—it felt freeing.

Let them think I’m too American.
Let them say I’m too Dominican.
Let them misunderstand the way I parent, or pray, or write, or live.
Let them believe what they want about how I left, how I stayed, how I speak.
Let them gossip. Let them guess.

It’s not my job to keep adjusting to make everyone else more comfortable.
Especially when my comfort has never been anyone’s priority but mine.

“Let Them” Is Not Indifference—It’s Boundaries

Here’s where I think people get it twisted. Practicing “Let Them” doesn’t mean I don’t care. It means I’m choosing where my care goes. It means I no longer chase validation from people who have made it clear they don’t value my voice, my identity, or my growth.

“Let Them” doesn’t mean I don’t feel the sting. It means I don’t let that sting run my life.

It’s not a wall—it’s a doorway away from trying to be palatable.

How “Let Them” Heals Cultural Guilt

Cultural guilt is real. It lingers in the background when you try to live differently, dream louder, or move beyond the path that was laid out for you. Especially as a daughter. As a mother. As a creative. As a bruja. As a woman.

But “Let Them” is a balm for that guilt.

It says:
Let them say I changed.
Let them say I’m different now.
Let them question the book I wrote, the words I chose, the stories I told.

Let them.

I don’t owe them a version of myself that stays small.

And the more I lean into this mindset, the more I see the shift in how I spend my energy. I no longer spend days rehearsing conversations that I’ll never have. I don’t write long paragraphs to defend myself in my head. I live. I speak. I write. I move.

And those who are meant to walk with me in this season? They don’t need convincing.

The Ordinary Bruja: Book One of Las Cerradoras Series – Johanny Ortega

When grief pulls Marisol Espinal back to Willowshade, she uncovers a legacy buried in shadows, silence, and ancestral magic. The Ordinary Bruja is a haunting coming-of-age story that blends psychological horror with Dominican folklore and magical realism. For fans of Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Isabel Cañas.

If you love what you read, I’d be honored to hear your thoughts. Please leave a review on your preferred platform and let other readers find the magic in The Ordinary Bruja.

Procrastination, Culture, and the Soft Rebellion

Now, I’ll be honest—“Let Them” also requires self-awareness. Because there are times when I let myself wallow a little too long. I’ll call it rest, but really it’s resistance. I’ll call it peace, but it’s avoidance.

That’s when I check myself.

Because “Let Them” also applies inwardly.

Let the inner critic chatter.
Let the doubt be there.
Let it sit—and then keep going anyway.

It’s not about never being triggered or never second-guessing. It’s about not letting those things run your life.

The Beauty in Letting Go

There’s power in refusing to explain yourself to people who are committed to misunderstanding you. There’s liberation in not performing your worth for family, for community, for followers, for anyone.

And there’s beauty in choosing to be—without a constant need to be understood.

So if you’re navigating the tension between who your culture told you to be and who you’re becoming, this is for you:

Let them be confused.
Let them shake their heads.
Let them miss the version of you that dimmed your light to make them comfortable.

And let yourself rise in the process.

#boundaries #culturalExpectations #emotionalGrowth #LatineIdentity #letThemTheory #MelRobbins #peoplePleasing #reclaimingPeace

Self-Hating Latinos & the Internalized Logic of Borders

The words we speak reveal the fears we carry. When fellow Latinos say “I did it the legal way” or “they’re not like us,” what’s really happening beneath these statements? This raw, unflinching exploration of internalized anti-immigrant attitudes within Latino communities pulls back the curtain on our community’s most uncomfortable truth: sometimes we become the very border patrol we claim to resist.

Drawing from my personal immigration journey that spanned nearly a decade, I share how the process separated my family for years while my grandmother raised me in my parents’ absence. This wasn’t by choice but by circumstance – a reality many immigrants face regardless of their documentation status. The immigration system isn’t simply about filling out forms; it’s years of paperwork, changing policies, financial strain, and emotional tolls spread across entire families.

Most revealing is the myth that perfect assimilation will shield us from discrimination. No matter how flawlessly we speak English or how “American” we become, those who view us as “other” will always see us that way. This proximity to whiteness offers no real protection – it’s a constant exhausting audition that requires cutting off essential parts of ourselves. When we echo border logic and enforcement rhetoric, we become complicit in our own oppression through what I call “pick-me patriotism.”

If your family came here “the legal way,” I challenge you to use that privilege to advocate rather than distance yourself from others. Question who taught you that following rules would protect you, and what they feared. Remember that what harms one immigrant ultimately harms us all – we are interconnected beyond artificial boundaries.

This conversation might make you uncomfortable, but that discomfort signals growth. Pass this episode to your tía, your primo, your coworkers, and let’s dismantle the walls built not just around us, but within us. Together, we can remember who we truly are.

#antiImmigrantRhetoric #assimilationMyth #culturalAccountability #immigrantFamilySeparation #internalizedOppression #LatineIdentity #LatinoImmigration #pickMePatriotism #proximityToWhiteness