Dear Reader,

Is that okay?

Since my readers went from my friends and family to hundreds of subscribers, I’ve started feeling the pressure to pick a genre and a niche.

At a writers’ conference in May, I was asked, “What do you write?”

Prose. Mostly essays. Some poetic pieces. Articles here and there. A children’s picture book that stayed in second draft form. Honestly, I don’t know.

I even tried to be slick and outsource this question in a survey: “If someone were to ask you what this newsletter is about, what would you say?”

Essays have always held a special place in my heart. After all, I grew up on Chicken Soup for the Soul. When my heart aches, I want to write poetry. When I have some shit to say, I want to write an article. When I have big shit to say, I want to reach out to the powers that be and ask the NYT to publish my shit.

When I want to give my memories a home, there’s memoir. When I want to play pretend, I have fiction.

And you might say choose one. Choose one for now.

But it’s important to not do that right now.

I’ve never had the chance to explore writing the way you get to in a creative writing program—trying different genres, points of view, having peers and teachers engage with my work. I definitely didn’t have the executive functioning to do so on my own.

This is my creative writing program, y’all.

So for now, I’m going to continue exploring.

I want to play with language. To find the words that taste good in my mouth. To build scenes that help us process and imagine.

I’ve been reading a lot.

I’ve been studying craft, starting with sentences. I’m not interested in studying genres—the fundamentals of memoir or the plot beats of fiction. And I’m no longer in the mood to talk about writer’s block or take writing classes that double as therapy. I was interested once and I’ll probably be interested again. Just not right now.

I took a class with The Center for Fiction on verbs, just verbs. The teacher, Sarah L. Kaufman, reflected that emotion is motion inside of us, so there’s a reason why we react strongly to verbs.

And I never thought I’d say this, but I’m revisiting grammar, the grammar I never quite learned in school, on account of my young ADD brain. I want to play with placing the comma in different places and finally learn when the fuck to use a semicolon.

Now that I’m finally not repulsed by metaphors (a story for another day), I too want to sing through my writing.

I’m continuing to share my work with literary journals to bang against other words, to feel the sting of rejection.

I want sentences to feel like a medium I can paint whatever story with, regardless of genre or topic.

And I really want to write about different topics.

I want to archive my people’s stories. I want my writing to help them see themselves differently, the way my father did when he read a piece I wrote about him for publication and said, “I’ve never seen myself this way.” To write about my grandma, the greatest storyteller alive, the one who I often meet when I close my eyes.

I want to write about creativity and software and music and relationships.

Since I started sharing my writing, I’ve exposed my diary, revealing cringey things about me, written about exes and opened up about my workplace and relationships.

Friends have reacted by saying, I could never share like that.

Though part of my values is writing about our society and humanity, I’m more aware of the consequences of doing so through nonfiction.

I still struggle with having a career working for someone else while also writing about raunchier topics that can be easily used against me in this patriarchal world.

And lately, with this administration, I feel I’m being watched more than ever, so I desire to share less about my life, and for the first time, I’m intrigued by the privacy of fiction, though even that thin veil can’t protect me.

Still, in my writing, in life, I need freedom to explore whatever topics I want with honesty.

I’m also trying to identify when words aren’t enough. When the story demands another medium—an image, a color, a pattern across the screen, or a movement in my body.

It’s an honor to have anyone read any word I write. Every text, email or DM I’ve received fills me with joy and connection. But I never expect anyone to read my words.

And now that I have readers, I don’t want the feeling of an audience to dictate what I write. I also don’t want the pressure to grow forever to convince me I need to package my writing.

I promise that by the time I’m 50, I’ll choose. But I already begrudgingly chose one job. Please don’t make me choose one genre.

If it brings you comfort—the way a software engineer turns to a PM and says, what the hell am I working on this year? This month?—I’m leaving you with a list of things I want to explore, some of which I’ll be sharing on Substack, some elsewhere.

Because who isn’t hot for lists?

• Reckoning with the different pieces of me

• How I insisted on a promotion after seeing Yves Klein blue at the MoMA NYC

• My creative process

• Capitalism, my favorite babysitter: A piece about not wanting to let consumerism go

• An article on studying AfroCuban dance for the last two years

• The real real behind being the eldest daughter

• The lessons in software engineering. Who knew there were so many metaphors in tech?

• Poetry that houses the bitter feeling of not going after what you want but then watching others do it

• Using AI as a rumination buddy who never gets tired of listening to the same story.

• History heartbreak—the five stages

• The guilt and fear that come with aging parents (thank you to whoever suggested this)

• A love letter to all the friends I’ve gained and lost along the way

• How I don’t want to be the third guy who was on the moon but didn’t step on it

When all is said and done, maybe they’ll find a thread through what I write, but maybe they won’t. For now, I have some shit to say and stories to tell.

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I went to my friend’s wedding this year, where I enjoyed chatting with the groom’s friend. Later she said, “We should get together sometime.” “Uh, maybe.” “Why maybe?” So I reached. “I’m busy prepping for my dance show in June.” This isn’t untrue. There was a show and I was prepping for it. “Oh, then after that!” I gave in. “Mm, sure!”

How could I have told her,

“Well, if I did have the extra hours to allot to you, I would use it to cuddle with my partner or see my friend’s one-year-old who has developed the cutest giggle. I would hang with my writer friend or get lost in an art piece. And it’s really not personal, I’d be pleased to see you if the bride and groom host another party.”

People beg us to remember our humanity, especially in “these times.” Yet here I am, officially a cliché: an antisocial software engineer.

Fuck.

What’s the point again?

There’s an 80% chance I don’t want to get coffee with anyone who asks. When our skip-level managers are in town at work, I miss the happy hour. I dread most social gatherings longer than four hours—your dinner that started at 7, that took me 40 minutes to get to and it’s now 11. What do you mean why am I leaving? Because I love you (so much) but it’s time!

These days my muscles clench when I’m in a meeting and the small talk lasts longer than expected. But when my mentor at work—the epitome of humanity-before-work—asked how I was doing during our meeting one morning, I knew he really meant it.

“I had one of those nights where I stayed up late reading a book until 2 a.m. I felt like a little kid again.”

“What book?”

“It’s called the Faces of Salsa and each chapter is an interview with someone who contributed to salsa’s history. I’m finding myself annotating throughout. I think I’m going through a music history phase.”

His face lit up. “Who do they have in there?”

“I just finished the chapter on Willy Colón.”

“Of course, a legend.”

My body began to relax.

“Ooh, is Cachao in there?!” he asked. “Because my dad loooves Cachao, he wouldn’t stop talking about him when I was a kid.”

I hadn’t heard of Cachao. I promised I’d let him know Cachao was included. We continued talking about how his mom encouraged his learning of instruments and how salsa relates to reggae.

I looked at my computer and realized I had lost track of time. I could talk about music and dance forever but I had topics to discuss so I switched us back to the agenda.

I used to be extroverted, I think?

For most of my life, people considered me extroverted. I would spend most of my free time socializing. My mom called me gaviota because I wouldn’t sit still. I would fly from engagement to engagement and city to city.

What finally changed? A mix of COVID slowing down my lifestyle, forced time alone from returning to school and finally unshadowing the artist in me.

COVID kick-started getting over FOMO, ish. To my surprise, I was content to spend my free time writing and going on walks with my family.

Right before the vaccines, I began a four-year torture of juggling my full-time career with studying for my part-time grad program in computer science. It took up all my time, forcing me to account for every moment of my life like I was a lawyer billing every seven minutes.

Then, I finally acted on my desire: to make art, capture truths and make things. After feeling paralyzed by my lack of executive functioning most of my life, the pain of not creating became harder than the pain of creating.

I learned about codependency and boundaries. My anxious and obsessive mind improved and I finally listened to what my body wanted to do (turns out my body wants to leave the party earlier so I can write).

When I finally learned Cachao was interviewed in my book, these lines resonated with me: “When you love music so much, that’s all you want to do from morning till night is to make music… that’s why I don’t enjoy being interviewed. I prefer to talk with the strings, because my language is double bass.”

Now that I’ve figured out how to work with my mind and body to be able to act on these desires—well, any of them—all I want to do from morning till night is make things too. Social demands begin to feel like an obstacle between me and my creativity.

I can’t, I gotta go feed my spirit

It’s not that I don’t like people, I love people. It’s not that I don’t value hearing about a coworker’s life or an acquaintance’s recent vacations. It’s that every time I say yes to something, that’s time that takes me away from something else I also value.

The Creative Coding club I attend laughs because I tend to sit in a corner working on my latest piece, headphones in, while the sound of cheery catch-ups and brainstorms fills the room. I simultaneously want to be their friend and get impatient when someone tries to speak to me. I restrict my time on coding projects to an hour per week and feel the pressure to make every minute count before I sneak off to dance rehearsal.

You know it’s bad when I find myself envying parents because of their automatic excuse for being antisocial. No one asks them why they can’t make it to the work happy hour, people just assume.

Imagine a baby with those little toes, and a squishy belly. Now imagine that baby is my writing, and if I don’t feed it words every week, my baby dies and I die.

I too am just a working mom, only childless, you know?

But I can’t say:

“Ugh, I wish, but I have to make it home to my family. How old are they? Salsa is about five years old, I just started my first drawing class, and my poem is on its second draft. Do you want to see a picture? I knowww, they’re so cute.”

Trying to find a balance

Today, balancing is a logistical act that also requires being in tune with what I want at any given moment. After work, sleep and other necessary humaning, we only have 55 hours of discretionary time, our baseline freedom to allocate as we please. I spread these hours across loved ones, health and creativity.

I never thought I’d be in the no-new-friends camp but here we are. Though I stay open-minded, I try to limit making new friends and instead focus on nurturing the relationships I do have.

I realized it’s the length of time of socializing that can deplete me. When I was in sales, I began dreading client visits, not because of the in-person aspect—I enjoyed finally meeting them–but because of the nine-hour meeting part. Being together from midday until 9 p.m. would leave me paralyzed, needing a whole day to recover.

My partner knows I need a game plan for this. If I’ve been doing wedding festivities since 1 p.m. and it’s now 10 p.m., then I need a break to journal, go on a walk, anything else. If I don’t, then over time I become restless and resentful, like a rabid animal trying to protect my spirit. If I can’t trust myself to find a balance (I give you 9 hours, I take 30 minutes), then I become more inclined to say no to future events, my antisocial nature creeping in. I’m still working on being more honest with my other relationships about these needs.

I continually have to reckon with disappointing others, remembering that those who love me just want to spend time with me. It’s not their job to understand why I need time alone to reflect and express—it’s mine.

I’m more open to showing up in the ways that feel sustainable for me. I show up but I bring my book for the car ride. I listen to a writer friend’s podcast and comment. I hand-embroider a piece for my cousin’s husband, an ode to supporting his clothing brand. I travel to Florida and do the dishes for my friend who has a 4-month-old.

I donate to an acquaintance’s nonprofit that is raising money for children in Brooklyn and I witness her glory at the fundraiser where I stay for exactly two hours before I politely leave. Yet when this same acquaintance wants to talk on the phone on a Friday in the middle of the workday and I know we like to yap together, my body signals, No! We have a busy day at work and we haven’t written in four days. Finish your shit so you can call your dad then write. I listen.

I don’t want to get attached to whether I’m extroverted or introverted or ambiverted. It’s more nuanced than that. I do know that the idea of going back to my before chills me—the busy-all-weekend lifestyle to the point where any free time has to go to household chores and basic adulting. Feeling so mentally and emotionally burnt that all I can muster is consumption (ingesting TV, social media and others’ creations). I anguish over the emptiness that would follow what should have been a joyful weekend.

If inside all of us there is a child, then inside of me is still the little girl who would drag her pillows to the bathtub because it was the only space I could find in our tiny two-bedroom home shared by five people where I could be alone and read, tuning the world out. Inside of me is the girl who would sneak her book under the dinner table, content to be surrounded by my people but wanting to relax in a book. And one of my favorite places is still getting lost in the worlds my mind creates.

I’m no longer willing to deprive her of what she needs.

The tradeoff is this fragile balance I’ve created could lead to losing some friends over time and missing out on some connections.

I don’t want to lose my humanity

I ran to tell my mentor that Cachao was indeed in the book.

After our exchanges about music, I realized: when my mentor and I are no longer on the same team, will I remember his software engineering work? Maybe. What I will remember is his sense of humor or his delight when he spoke about his dad’s love for Cachao, a nice break from solving brain-hurting tasks. The warmth in his demeanor when he greets everyone is what would make me feel comfortable reaching out during a rough career time.

I relate to Cachao’s one-track mind of playing music, but ultimately, who are we playing music for?

Of course, each other.

At the end of the day, I downsized my social life but I don’t want to lose my humanity.

Can you relate? I would love to hear how you manage this struggle.

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The artist math that went viral in 2026

Veronica Polanco is a software engineer and hybrid storyteller who weaves words, code, art and dance to tell stories. Born in Washington Heights and now living in Brooklyn, she sees NYC as the ultimate playground for creativity. Veronica views dance as a joyful rebellion—she currently trains with Baila Society in AfroCuban, Salsa and Latin Hustle. Her work has been featured in publications like The Acentos Review, Ranger Magazine and AMPM Gallery Fall 2025 show, “OLEAJE.” She’s an active contributor to the Dominican Writers Association.

Style rooted in the individual’s body. That’s what I like.

Frida Kahlo. Besides her art, we recognize her for her fashion choices. She was often captured wearing a corset or a huipil. She decorated the corsets, painting flowers and animals onto them and inviting us into her subconscious. Over time, she became a style icon, leaving us to imagine the why behind her choices. Maybe she wore traditional clothing to honor her Mexican culture. Her boots could represent defiance.

Actually, the corset supported her spine. The long skirts hid her legs, which were different lengths from her contracting polio at age six. Frida thoughtfully picked out every fashion piece, determined to express her spirit, yet they had practical purposes as well.

I loved the knee-high socks a coworker would wear to work, often paired with a skirt or a long dress. Long socks weren’t in style at the time, yet she looked effortlessly cool. When I told her I liked her aesthetic, she revealed she wore compression socks because of a medical condition. At first she wasn’t a huge fan of them, but she began to enjoy imagining all the different combinations she could make.

Fashion as an extension of a person’s unique form. That’s the style that sticks with me. It’s the friend who has to wear her hair in a bun to focus, otherwise her ADHD would force her to endlessly play with her hair. It’s Stevie Wonder’s glasses or the chunky sneakers my friend wears because she prefers to cover her brachymetatarsic toes. The simple materials of a person sensitive to textures. My friend who wears headbands under winter hats so as not to ruin his braids. The person who wears sunglasses because they’re sensitive to the sun.

My bunion and flat feet don’t want me to look chic. Those fierce, classic pointy pumps that make everyone look amazing? Not an option for me. I’m finally podiatrist-age, well, in my thirties, and the podiatrist prescribed me comfortable shoes only. When I walked into the shoe store for the elderly, the salesperson convinced me to buy the very shoes he was wearing. Great, me and somebody’s uncle are matching. What would people say about me? She’s a software engineer, the gray New Balance look makes sense for her. She must be a tomboy. And I won’t shout, I’m just tired of being uncomfortable!

Often, I paint my clothes to cover up the mysterious stains that appear. People stop and ask me if I’m an artist. I don’t have the heart to disillusion them by admitting I’m just dirty. I think there’s a part of them that needs to believe their story.

I used to be unable to separate fashion from its industry. The fashion industry felt like one big marketing ploy that made us consume beyond our means and mindlessly follow trends created in marketing meetings. The money and time needed to keep up seemed too frivolous compared to this one, precious life.

But God, I love a good story.

And as much as I don’t want to admit it, I love humans even more. I adore the different shapes our bodies take. I’m delighted by the peculiarities of our buttery brains. I think style and stories have always been married—that someone’s style begins with staying true to their unique needs, and the world, eager to understand, makes up the rest. Style rooted in an individual’s body forces us to admit that we are also art, and Frida Kahlo knew her body was a canvas.

Thank you to The Branches journal for publishing this piece in their Spring 2026 issue.

Let me know what sentences stuck out to you, or how this piece landed.

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My Creative World

There’s nothing like the choreo debut! My dance team just debuted this season’s choreo at Alvin Ailey World of Dance show and our company student showcase called Azimuth. Azimuth combined afrocarribean styles like salsa with traditional Indian dances like bharatanatyam, an electrifying combination. I hadn’t seen these styles mixed before Baila Society and Navatman dance companies decided to collaborate.

I got to read “Alchemized Style” at The Branches launch event in Central Park, alongside the other featured writers. It was refreshing to meet strangers writers at the park.

What I’ve Been Reading

I fled through Red at the Bone because of Woodson’s poetic sentences. One of her chapters begins with the sentence, “I too am singing America that morning in September.” Woodson captures three generations of a black American family and a mother who ended up not wanting to be a mother.

I started Lena Dunham’s memoir, Famesick because of my intrigue of a writer who began writing and starring in her own TV show at 23. My recent fascination with TV writing continues.

Veronica Polanco is a software engineer and hybrid storyteller who weaves words, code, art and dance to tell stories. Born in Washington Heights and now living in Brooklyn, she sees NYC as the ultimate playground for creativity. Veronica views dance as a joyful rebellion—she currently trains with Baila Society in AfroCuban, Salsa and Latin Hustle. Her work has been featured in publications like The Acentos Review, Ranger Magazine and AMPM Gallery Fall 2025 show, “OLEAJE.” She’s an active contributor to the Dominican Writers Association.

The artist rocks back and forth in a fetal position, whispering. We inch closer. We realize they’re grumbling,

but is this art but is this art but is this art but is this art?

Their unsureness grows as they scour through artworks that have made it: landscapes, rectangles, collages. Why is this art? What is art? They ask, as if the answer is any more certain than the question, what is love?

If we want to make art and we don’t know where to start, we can begin by simply noticing as we move through the world. Then, we can notice what we notice. And archive it. That’s it.

“So far, I’m feeling a bit self conscious and asking questions like is my dad gonna get tired of me? Was 1 month too long? -London, 10am”

Right before my father turned 70, we made his dream trip to Europe come true: we traveled together for a month, spending three weeks in France and one week in Spain. French was one of the first languages he learned, and he taught it at a colegio in Santo Domingo to make some extra cash. Scandalous fact: that’s how he and my mother met, but that’s a story for another day.

On our travels, people would stop us, bemused. They had never seen a daughter and a father traveling alone together. They told us they didn’t know how long they could handle that much time alone with their dads.

“I hope this trip is what he imagined. -Lyon Hotel, 2pm”

I love seeing the world through my dad’s eyes.

I like standing behind him as he takes a picture because something has triggered his curiosity. Why? What is it about that view or about that architecture that’s intrigued him?

“The train station, Le Défense is so busy. The train is colorful with pink, orange, grey, purple and red seats. -Train to Versailles, 3:10pm”

To me, what catches his attention is art. I’d walk through a museum filled with everything that my dad noticed throughout his lifetime: the monuments, the people, the nature, the murals.

“I’m realizing we aren’t morning people hahaha but whatever, we do our thing. I hope he’s having the best time. -Paris, 12pm”

And you might be thinking, well, I don’t know this man. I don’t love your dad. I might find that museum boring.

But what if I tell you a story? Or many?

“Welp, we officially missed our 1st train lol. -Train to Rouen, 1:10pm”

Our uniqueness is the art

What if I tell you the man who’s taking these photographs is long-lived? He’s 72, born in 1953, amidst the dictatorship in Dominican Republic. What if we learn his dad was a shoemaker whose clients would arrive by horse, but they couldn’t afford shoes for the children?

Or that he’s a civil engineer who built some of the roads throughout the Dominican Republic before immigrating to the Bronx in the late 1980s? What if we consider that he’s one of the many—one of the always—who arrived in the states undocumented and without his wife and son? Or that my parents communicated through long love letters back and forth that I stumbled upon when I was rummaging through a closet, only to fall off my chair, the unmarked box of letters landing on top of me?

“Tired! But somehow wide awake with emotion. Every time we say goodbye to a town and get on the train, I feel giddy. I think we’re almost halfway through. Imma cry. I love it here. I love that me and my dad are best friends and that we work well together. I’m so grateful. -Train to Lyon, 7am”

What if I tell you my dad is a spiritual man, who’s meditated every day to settle his inquietud. The uneasiness of his heart. That he’s read every religious book, including reading the Quran in English and Spanish because he went on a journey to learn about every religion and consider the one that met his needs.

“2 weeks now, it’s unreal. I can’t believe we have more time. By the time we’re done, we’ll be experts on the South of France. And my dad will finally get to see Spain. Work will always be there but this won’t… -Train to Arles, 2pm”

What if we tell a story that speaks to our souls or our curiosities? Something that piques our interest and makes us want to know what a man like that would notice. And instead of him being Veronica’s dad, it becomes about seeing the world through other eyes, maybe an elder’s.

Then maybe we, or some museum curator, might realize these photographs convey something—a moment in history, a moment in a man’s life, appreciation for beauty.

Is it not the stories that make art, Art?

It’s the noticing

As I reflect on this, I realize a truth. It’s not only the object: what he notices; it’s the act; the noticing. The noticing plants the flicker in our eyes that makes us pay more attention. That’s why I don’t only take pictures of the scene he’s captured but of him, capturing. The way he holds his phone for a moment and stops time. The way he squats down to get a better shot.

“The South of France is beautiful because on one side you have the sea and on the other, the mountains. -Mentón Beach, 7:30pm”

Sometimes we overthink when it comes to writing, and sharing and making artwork. We get stuck on wanting to be more profound, intelligent, inventive, talented or cool. But for me, my favorite kind of art is when I get a better understanding of how another person exists. So whether it's the photographs we take or the lists we make that we share with a friend, it’s art.

We can say, here are all the things I've noticed:

This year.

While on the subway.

When I became a mother.

While eating my ice cream on a bench.

During my first big trip before I turned 70.

“Yesterday was a great day. The beach, the jazz show, the lil Italian woman who loves music and says ‘Brava, brava!’ Who says music hits you in your ‘cuore.’ A woman who was moved by music and wanted to believe we spoke Italian. When I told her I don’t speak it, she said, ‘You do!’ As if she could will it. -Nice, 10:30am”

Veronica Polanco is a software engineer and hybrid storyteller who weaves words, code, art and dance to tell stories. Born in Washington Heights and now living in Brooklyn, she sees NYC as the ultimate playground for creativity. Veronica views dance as a joyful rebellion—she currently trains with Baila Society in AfroCuban, Salsa and Latin Hustle. Her work across mediums has been featured in publications like The Creative Stillness anthology, The Acentos Review, Ranger Magazine, The Branches Journal and the AMPM Gallery Fall 2025 show, “OLEAJE.”

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I had finally gotten published in a book after years of secretly wanting to pursue writing.

I had written the poem, submitted the poem, received a copy of the anthology, held the copy in my hands, seen my name on the page underneath the title and I felt… ashamed? Shy?

Sometimes a sprinkle of pride. Often I felt connected to the meaning behind the poem and I was intrigued by the other poets, having fun finding them and reading their work. But mostly there was shame disguised as general silence.

I didn’t ask anyone to buy the book, not my friends or family—I’m not even sure I considered it.

I posted once and never really talked about the book again.

My ex at the time gave me a personalized trophy that read, “Awarded for being a published author.” But I didn’t feel I deserved that title at all. I felt the kind of shame that goes with the saying, “I don’t want to belong to any club that would accept me as one of its members.” If it was that easy, then my poem must be terrible.

I’ve never traditionally published and I’ve never written an entire book. When I imagine finally doing it and all the hard work it takes, I imagine myself ecstatic. I would be unapologetically joyful: posting countdowns, hosting a launch party, telling everyone and their mom that I wrote a book and they should read it.

But would I?

We think the hardest part about doing the damn thing is sitting down and finally doing it. After hearing from publishers, writers and organizers in creative spaces, I officially think talking about the thing is harder.

Marketing, promoting, documenting, archiving—whatever name we want to give it—writers dread this part the most.

Writers tend to think that self-publishing is especially grueling because the author has to hustle to sell their book. But in traditional publishing, where the book might receive a small-to-large marketing budget, authors must also promote their book.

And there is no guarantee about this budget at all. One of my favorite poets explained that she didn’t get much help when she published her debut novel with a Big-Five publishing house—they barely gave her any budget or helped set up any marketing efforts.

The final verdict: whether we publish traditionally or solo, if we want others to read our books, buy our books or recognize us as writers, we’ll need to promote them. And… we’ll need to promote them not just once, but consistently over the course of months, possibly years.

Maybe forever?

Authors cultivate their readers by reaching out to libraries, posting on socials, reaching out to local bookstores to supply their books and host events, creating their own book tour, making websites and more.

tricky: when we’re not proud of the work

“Tree in sidewalk square” was one of the first poems I wrote as an adult outside of school. Today, I hate the title (it sounds like an image description) and quite honestly… the poem could be better. The message, though, still resonates with me. I didn’t know what I was doing as a poet, or how to revise a poem to improve upon the first draft. So by the time the book came out, I wasn’t completely ready to stand by it.

Publishing is a slooooow process.

From writing a piece to editing revisions to submitting it to journals or agents, to publishing it—by the time readers can read our work, years might have gone by. There’s no guarantee that we’ll feel proud of the work once it’s published.

This lack of pride reveals that external validation never equalled internal validation. Just because we finally get published doesn’t mean we’ll feel enough confidence in the piece to talk about it.

If a piece is getting published today that we might have written years ago, then the piece might end up being unrelatable to us by the time it’s published, the lesson irrelevant, the skills infant-like. Our new learnings of craft might make the sentences feel off. Our personal growth might make the topics feel irrelevant.

By the time our work is published and we re-read it, our minds might find negative stories enticing:

Well, you self-published, so you’re not exactly an author.

I’m not a real writer.

Ok, I did it once but I don’t know if I could do it again, so let me not make it hot.

Well, all debut authors write in first-person voice: I’m a cliché.

Oof, that sentence could have been better.

Honestly, I would scrap this entire paragraph.

Oof, I wouldn’t have written about this subject today.

Wow, my early poems were so cringe.

Some who anticipate these stories might wait forever to publish or never try at all, paralyzed by the discomfort that a piece could always be better. I’ll admit that I learned the hard way that we need to increase the chances we’ll be proud of the work through rigorous editing. Still, regardless of how much we edit, we change and our craft changes. And our minds are wired to be negative, constantly finding reasons to diminish the win when it comes.

How can we feel pride in the baby pieces we made with the craft we had then?

How can we love our past writer self to both acknowledge we’ve changed yet still honor who we were?

How do we still honor our fledgling art? I saw one artist who paints her earlier paintings into the scenes of her new ones.

our relationship to attention

As much as we want to believe our patterns are siloed, they aren’t. Instead, they seep into other crevices of our lives. By the time we write the chapbook, there’s no guarantee that social media will make us less anxious.

Or that we’ll suddenly become people who talk about our work.

Or that we’ll immediately become comfortable with telling our stories.

Artists want to make art and not market.

In corporate spaces, we often refer to telling our stories as the politics of it all. We don’t want to have to talk about the work, we just want to do the work.

I say bullshit, it’s not how human attention and thought work. It’s hard for people to keep track of both themselves and what others are up to unless we share it in some way.

They say modern art = I could do that + yeah, but you didn’t.

I would argue it’s I could do that + and I do that + yeah, but you didn’t tell anyone about it.

You see a red rectangle at the MoMA and you scoff at how easy it looks. But if you have done that, would you call the entire village to see your work, like Yves Klein did when he thought he had invented the most perfect blue?

Or would you only feel proud once you’re a prolific painter, you’ve made it into the MOMA, received an award, and then you would finally share with people? I doubt it, because at that point, with such a big accomplishment, you probably won’t want to brag at the risk of not being perceived as humble.

So we end up relying on others to tell our stories… or not.

Like how the Chicago Institute of Art’s database has a whole column of artists with the name “NULL” because we don’t know who these artists are.

teeny tiny actions

I want to publish many books in my life. Some for consumption, some just for archiving my family’s history.

Some, I will want others to read.

And mostly, with the precious time I have on this earth, I want to be proud and excited about how I’m choosing to spend it.

For me, that includes connecting with others. It’s not easy but it’s a muscle I want to keep developing. So I start small when it comes to sharing my work. When I publish a microessay, I document it and I relay it. When I think a Substack piece will resonate with someone, I send it to them. I display my sketches around my home.

Often, these actions are for myself, to archive my creativity.

what about community?

Sometimes we imagine the knight in shining armor who declares our art Capital A Art. They witness what we make somewhere and they believe in us so tirelessly that they give us a big break through their connections.

Maybe the people who do audaciously talk about their work have mini knights, champions who are proud of them. Maybe they have a web of supportive moms and dads and neighbors who promote their work before they even have to. Maybe their friends/partners are so into their work, they help them sell their book without the author having to promote it.

I also don’t want to dismiss the societal differences here, where certain networks might lend themselves to more structure for visibility within the arts.

some ideas I have

We are in a world where many want followers but don’t want to follow. If most dread the time and effort that comes with self-promotion, then how do we help each other out?

Are you supporting your communities when they publish?

How can organizations make supporting each other more formal?

What if we had a network of writing champions, where when you do publish, you’ll know you have a group of 5-10 people who will for sure preorder and write reviews if they like your piece?

the truth

We’re all busy and preoccupied with our own worlds. Even when we do share, we might not get the response we desire, at least from our network. My author friends tell me they were disappointed when some of their friends didn’t buy their book.

Sometimes I don’t hear back from my shares, their thumbs don’t even click on the little heart on my message.

Some people aren’t interested in the mediums we like to express ourselves in (e.g., they prefer to not read, they’re not into art). Others might not notice until others notice you first, like once your writing makes it to NYT level or you go viral, then they realize, ohhhh you’re serious about this thing.

For a while, or ever, those friends and family might not be our audience.

Instead, our supporters will be the ones who know how hard it is to try something new, to mix that color, to make jewelry, to share our first essay. Or they are the ones who adore reading and are amazed by art.

I don’t think we should completely rely on others. Sometimes we’ll have to be our own parents for our inner artist children, displaying our own artwork on our metaphorical fridges.

When the time comes, when you finally are doing the damn thing, will you share your work?

Do you do it now?

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Veronica Polanco is a software engineer and hybrid storyteller who weaves words, code, art and dance to tell stories. Born in Washington Heights and now living in Brooklyn, she sees NYC as the ultimate playground for creativity. Veronica views dance as a joyful rebellion—she currently trains with Baila Society in AfroCuban, Salsa and Latin Hustle. Her stories have been featured in publications like The Acentos Review, Ranger Magazine, The Branches Journal and AMPM Gallery Fall 2025 show, “OLEAJE.” She’s an active contributor to the Dominican Writers Association and is the author of the newsletter To Get to the Mango Tree, which reaches hundreds of readers.

It seems every week the reason for my love of making things evolves, so here is the latest list: I make art for my ancestors who couldn’t walk down the creative path and especially... for those who couldn’t even see the path; creativity is my form of spirituality and I feel most connected when making; my guiding mantra has been “learning and growing, loving, and playing;” though I’ve been writing since I was 9 years old, I will grow old expressing myself in multiple mediums because this life is just too sweet to limit myself to one color.

Today is my born day. I welcome this moment to take a step back and to mark time passing. Birthdays represent a new year for me, even more than the beginning of the calendar year.

As a child, I began journaling to recount—tracking my days, the events, the people coming in and out of my life—but I continued for the reflection.

Every year on my birthday, I do both. In my everyday life, I tend to get hyper-focused on what’s in front of me: my to-do list, my goals, my plans for the day, the sensations that arise in my body, the current drama. This ritual grounds me. Recounting helps me stretch the moments in my life and reflection helps me take inventory of my spirit.

I know why we’re afraid to sit and reflect: because truths come out. My birthday is when I give these truths a home, when I give my body a release from holding them.

The Ritual

Materials needed: your favorite picnic blanket, headphones / speaker if you use music to move or soothe you, water / something bubbly, sandals or shoes you can easily take off for grounding in the earth.

Nature is preferable. If it’s raining, a beautifully designed coffee shop will do. In nature, I feel held, like I’m being rocked by its musical performance of movement and sounds. Plus, when I look closely, nature makes me laugh. I like to find a park in NYC and sit on the blanket in the shade underneath a tree. I think body touching ground versus sitting in a chair is an important part of the magic. I usually find myself closing my eyes and feeling the breeze brush my face as I breathe in and out. I notice. Like right now, if I tilt my head all the way back, I can see a house sparrow on a branch who won’t stop yapping. I smile because ahead of me, a Samoyed’s tongue hangs out while it tries to keep cool and I can hear a guy’s jump rope landing on the concrete with every swing.

When I’m ready to begin, I open my laptop and I read the previous year’s reflection. I like to remember what I noted then, what was important to me. I relive the memories. I’m amused by how much has changed… and how much really hasn’t. Then, I open a new document and title it the age I am that day. I answer the questions in order, writing as much as I need to before moving on to the next prompt.

The Prompts

1. The first paragraph is about remembering what the hell happened this year. Make a list of the biggest moments. Any milestones, trips or big markers of the year.

2. What made you feel most alive this year? When did you feel most like yourself?

3. What was the best advice you received this year?

4. What gifts have you given others this year?

5. Who has inspired you the most this year?

6. Which relationships strengthened?

7. Did any relationships weaken?

8. What new things you’ve done this year?

9. What’s something you accomplished in the last year that you’re proud of?

10. Do you like who you’re becoming?

11. What do you want to change next year?

12. Better said, what are you willing to struggle for this year?

13. What did you do this year that you were afraid of at first?

14. What made you happy this year that you’d like to see more of?

15. Did you take anything for granted?

16. Do you have negative or toxic people in your life who create unnecessary drama?

17. What did the past 12 months teach you?

18. What toxic patterns have you broken?

19. If getting older bothers you, why is that?

The total time for this ritual is about 2 hours. Enjoy.

Con amor,

Veronica

Don’t Read My Diary

I am a boy and a man. I love so many things. I also hurt deeply. It feels like my heart is being crushed by its own gravity. Like a black hole forming in my chest. I am sad. I truly am, Depressed. Life is hard, it seems so wrong and fake. Sleep all day, actually sleep. Build for a few hours a day and eat just what you need. That feels right. It makes me feel alive. Alert, happy, courageous and conscious. I feel so blunted in this life, in this society. It feels wrong. Like I’m in a frightful cage. That gets smaller when I finally have the courage to try and stretch. And it gets bigger when I submit. I was not born to be in a cage. I was already born in the cage and it is all I know. And sometimes I’m even fond of it. It feels like security. But most of the time, I feel trapped and suffocated by its nature of containment. I was meant to roam, to put down roots and let them spread every which way.

I was born to be free. I am crying more than usual lately. All I’ve known is the cage. Maybe I’m crying because I’m leaving? I feel soft and righteous and scared because I feel eyes of predators on me, I feel like they want to kill me. Not because they are hungry. If they needed to eat me for them to live, I would have more courage to fight for my own life because that feels natural. But the eyes that I feel on me now, wants to kill me just because. Because of evil motivations. That evil scares me. It makes it hard to fight back because if I lose, it’ll mean more than just my life. It’ll mean eternal suffering. That’s what it feels like. This evil survives from my suffering. Then maybe it is also just trying to survive.

I’m surrounded by fumes, I’m in the office and the janitors are doing their job of cleaning but those deadly chemicals are irritating my brain. I am good no matter how much evil I’ve tasted, I still know that goodness flows through me like star power. Like an invincible force that cannot be compressed or made to do anything. Sometimes I’m able to have it spread for me, and give my existence a warm hug. Those are the times where I feel like I’m fulfilling my destiny. To spread kindness in this world. To do it, I want to get this cortisol chip out of my arm. Throw it into the biohazard bin, that is containment of soul and walk out. Grateful for my experience and happy to be outside, to let my fearlessness and courage and smarts have their space to run. It will all be okay. Life is meant to be lived and I have not stopped trying.

Kevin wrote this week’s journal entry.

Kevin is an ex-solutions engineer, data scientist, real estate investor and home builder. He also happens to be my favorite poet.

Kevin wrote this after pushing through an epically shitty day. He was surveying the society he’s a part of. At the same time, he faced a question that I’m convinced never goes away: what should I do with my life? Not just career-wise, that’s how we make money, but what should I do with the time from my life? He was in a post-corporate hiatus after a layoff, weighing where to go next and whether he wanted to go back to a company at all. I’m grateful he’s gifting us his perspective as a man in his 30s processing his inner and outer world.

The first theme: melancholy, the feeling that can make our bodies feel heavy and empty, “like a black hole forming in my chest.” He names the sadness and depression. Through this lens, life feels “wrong and fake.” Sometimes the world feels so unbelievable that nothing feels real.

There’s an undercurrent of gender. I stopped at, “I am a boy and a man.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say that. I’m used to women calling themselves girls—“I’m just a girl” from Notting Hill echoed everywhere last year—but not men. When I was deciding where to begin the entry, I even found myself wanting to start after that sentence, to almost protect him, reminding me of a quote from Brené Brown:

I say it’s not just women but society. My uneasiness is what made me realize I needed to keep it. I’m relieved I did. Throughout the entry, he holds both his manhood and boyhood. He also sits in the feeling of softness. From a psychological perspective, he shows self-compassion towards his depression and even the crying, something that can be universally difficult. Rather than push these emotions away, he’s curious: “I am crying more than usual lately... Maybe I’m crying because I’m leaving?”

He gave us many beautiful images—the cage, the cortisol chip in the arm, the eyes of the predator.

The cage felt familiar. Most of us have felt the confinement of society’s expectations of us. There’s a dissonance between feeling both secure and suffocated by the cage. Interestingly, it grows larger when he obeys and smaller when he rebels.

I was stunned by Kevin’s description of what philosophers call “Radical Evil,” suffering that serves no biological purpose. He writes, “If they needed to eat me for them to live, I would have more courage to fight for my own life because that feels natural.” Who is “they?” I thought, wondering who the predators are in his metaphor.

After a few days, I understood. We’re taught death and suffering occur for some greater advancement or part of the circle of life. But the evil that weighs him down is different. It’s self-interested evil and the suffering is only to advance a few. “But the eyes that I feel on me now, wants to kill me just because. Because of evil motivations. That evil scares me.” As a man, he feels he has to be even more vigilant, feeling the pressure to be a shield for others.

Throughout the entry, there is a balance that feels hopeful. He is certain of what does feel right. “Build for a few hours a day and eat just what you need” is what makes him feel alive. “To spread kindness in this world” feels close to his destiny. He sees nature as a grounding force, expressing gratitude and being “happy to be outside.”

Yet I was left wondering, what are ways to remove that cortisol chip? We often associate that stress with the corporate world, dreaming of the tranquility awaiting us if we were to leave. Why did that feeling remain within Kevin? Is it because “Corporate America” isn’t just a place anymore, but a concept threaded in how we live?

Questions to reflect on:

• What does feel real?

• What would it mean for me to leave the cage? What would I have to give up?

• What are some small ways to remove the cortisol chip, or lessen its effects?

My Creative World

This shirt received its last stitch this weekend! I began this project nine months ago, inspired by the 1940s–1960s blues and rock aesthetics in Cadillac Records. My roomies teased me for how long this took but I finally discovered a needle threader and my embroidery game is now dangerous.

Over the last year, I’ve fallen in love with dance and music history archives, largely thanks to Baila Society, a dance company in NYC. They honor the roots of the dances by archiving and teaching. They’ve reminded me that once a dance has been commercialized, the people and culture who created it are often the ones who lose out on the profit, either financially or through proper credit (think: Lindy Hop).

On Sunday, April 26th, there’s a virtual reading for the Creative Stillness anthology. My essay, “Recycling Love,” is included in the collection, which explores how creativity can bring us peace. I’m geeking because it’ll be my first time hearing the other contributors’ stories. Sign up to show some love!

What I’m Reading

Last week, I started reading The Grand Paloma Resort by Cleyvis Natera, a book that Natera says reveals the “underbelly of luxury tourism.” During a book event, she told the audience that if we want to write characters that feel true, then we must write their ugly too. That stuck with me because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do with “Don’t Read My Diary,” to fall in love with all parts of us, including the parts of us we often hide from others. I high-key think this practice can help us create better characters.

Every other week we’ll get honest and raw by analyzing an unedited, and often cringe, journal entry, sometimes my own and sometimes from others. I’ll share what I’m reading and tell you what’s new from my creative world. Submit your journal entry here.

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“Whatever form it takes, long or short, formal or informal, published or unpublished… The urge to leave some record of our life… is one of the strongest human impulses. Who doesn’t want to be remembered? It’s also an important thing to do because you are the only custodian of your story, and that story is perishable. It’s perishable because as you've noticed if you’re a parent, the next generation has a tendency not to be interested in family history until it’s too late. I often hear middle age men and woman say, ‘I wish I had asked my my mother about that or I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention to my grandfather’s stories and I always think that’s very sad, to have all that information and all those stories die with the person who had the information and the stories." - William Zinsser

“Wow, I’ve never seen myself this way. I found myself thinking, ‘That’s not about me!’” my dad told me, after reading this essay. What is it about giving our stories a home that makes them feel more grand? That makes us feel more grand? Often, documentaries and autobiographies are reserved for those society has determined to be extraordinary. Look around.

I’ve never had a legacy urge, but I do have a strong desire to play family historian and archive our stories, and a longing to honor the mysterious lives of those born before me.

I recommend starting small, maybe with a memory or story your family tells often. A paragraph is perfect. Bonus points if you gift it to them on their birthday. Then grab a writing device or your voice recorder. Ask. Notice the sensations in your body that arise when you realize asking your loved ones to tell their stories in a more formal way can feel vulnerable.

What surprised me the most while writing this piece is that I genuinely thought I had the answers until I went to gather the details. I found myself needing to ask my dad clarifying questions because, it turns out, I didn’t have the full story, just pieces of assumptions and versions my mind had created over time. Writing as archival forces you to be curious in a way recounting or thinking doesn’t.

To know me, you have to know my father, specifically his spirituality. As Dominicans, we often limit ourselves, likely as a way to survive and feel a sense of belonging. We say, “this is what being Dominican is” and simplify our Dominicanness. Papi was born and raised in the Dominican Republic with Dominican parents. Yet, he still is who he is.

Papi was born in Hato Mayor, an hour and a half outside of Santo Domingo. He was always sick as a child, so he mostly stayed home and read. Eventually, Papi moved to La Capital, where, after graduating from UASD with a civil engineering degree, he decided to teach French at a colegio on the side. That colegio is where he met my mother, but that story is for another scandalous day. Papi loved languages. I remember growing up seeing all these books with Russian and German titles and whatever other languages he was trying to learn at the time. His mindset was that anything he wanted to learn, he could learn through reading.

Papi ended up finding spirituality anyway, or more so, needing spirituality. During his time at UASD, a classmate noticed his anxiety or his inquietud. She would let him borrow books to read about spirituality. Finally, his friend told him about a Yoga center, and the teacher was visiting from India. With his brother by his side, they attended their first conference. That’s where my dad learned how to meditate. The center also exposed my parents to vegetarianism. Growing up, when my Dominican friends would hear that my parents were vegetarian, they would respond with shock: “They’re not really Dominican.” Like most of us, Papi was raised in the Catholic church. He grew up with all of his siblings and family members saying, “Gracias a Papa Dios” whenever they were blessed with good fortune. When I visited Hato Mayor with Papi, he took me to the church that he used to go to. He recalls at first liking the church but then not wanting to go. But the beauty of my dad is he never disparaged any religion. His response to religion was more so a confident yet humble, “I’m good,” as if saying, “I know I don’t need this.”

In his quest to find answers, he became a pillar for our family when we needed spirituality. This man has read the Quran twice, in English and in Spanish. Like, who does that? When one of us is suffering, he uses his teachings to help us find our own peace.

I remember one time I was struggling with balancing a high-stress career and pressures to go to grad school. I felt I was constantly holding my breath, and the anxiety had manifested into crying that wouldn’t stop. As I lay in my parents’ bed when visiting home, my dad came over, asking me what was wrong. I told him I’m afraid of investing so much time into studying and none of it amounting to anything. He lowered to sit by my side and asked, “Have you ever heard of sand mandalas?”

He didn’t say everything was going to be okay. He didn’t bring me back to my mind by asking me what my strategy was or how many hours I would be studying.

Instead, he told me how monks spend hours on end making beautiful sand art that can take anywhere from weeks to months to complete. And after they’re finished, they destroy the art they just made by blowing the sand away. Just like that, the beautiful art is gone. I was confused. After all of those months? What’s the point of making the art?

Papi was teaching me about the impermanence of life. He didn’t tell me that at the time, but he showed me through story and he let me find my own answers. I remember the calmness that washed over me that helped me drift off into sleep. I realized I was overcomplicating my life. I was just making sand art. And if it blows away, that’s okay.

That moment brings me peace to this day.

Papi was patient when I quit the Catholic Church at 11 and patient when I became atheist at 21. When I finally found my way back to God, he told me, “I didn’t want to push you, but I knew you’d find your way back.” He was the first person I admitted my anxious thoughts to. He was also the first person I admitted my inner whispers to. Something about his humble quench for the rawness of life made me feel I had a safety net of support to fall into.

Recently, Papi watched a documentary on “earthing,” the practice of grounding by walking barefoot in the earth, mainly grass. He got our whole family into it. Now we send each other videos back and forth of our toes as they dance in the grass. I don’t know if this earthing concept is real, but I do know in those moments I feel connected to nature. I feel spiritual.

I’m grateful Papi has brought me peace, simply by being himself. I’ve learned by watching him learn. Through his exploration, he’s brought me tools and habits that I’ll take with me for the rest of my life.

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Help a sister out, what questions would you still have for my dad after reading?

I want to thank for originally publishing “Sand Mandalas,” as part of their RESPALDO issue. RESPALDO represented a “powerful reflection on the quiet strength and complex love of our fathers, grandfathers, and paternal figures.”

Veronica is a hybrid storyteller and software engineer. She uses words and code, dance and art to tell stories, threading community throughout. Her work has been featured in publications like The Acentos Review and Ranger Magazine. To her, writing is an exploration of truth—a playful tool for observing and mirroring human existence.

Every other week we’ll get honest and raw by analyzing an unedited, and often cringe, journal entry. I’ll share what I’m reading and tell you what’s new from my creative world. I’d love to feature your journal, submit your entry here.

“When my daughter was about seven years old, she asked me one day what I did at work. I told her I worked at the college, that my job was to teach people how to draw. She stared at me, incredulous, and said, ‘You mean they forget?’”

-Howard Ikemoto

My Creative World

Week three of drawing classes. We covered faces, and next week we’ll discuss anatomy, two things I tend to avoid like watching sports on TV, still preferring stick figures… wish me luck. I started drawing classes a few weeks ago because much of what I like to make depends on underlying images. I want more flexibility in what I’m able to visualize for my art and the funny scenes I make up in my head.

I finally finished this embroidery and acrylic piece! It’s a tribute to a woman’s childhood and the country that raised her. I used acrylic markers to paint the Ecuadorian flag colors, then layered flowers over them. I then found an image of the beautiful church from the town she grew up in and rendered an outline to be a blueprint for embroidery. 400+ stitches later, and I proudly gifted it to my partner’s grandma to spruce up her kitchen.

What I’m Reading

“Several short sentences about writing” by Verlyn Klinkenborg. He emphasizes that genre is irrelevant, the real work of a writer is in writing sentences. The book is helping me think about things I haven’t thought about, like the rhythm of sentences, and things I’m not sure I ever learned, like transitive and intransitive verbs.

My favorite visual so far:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

 “Imagine it this way:
One by one, each sentence takes the stage.
It says the very thing it comes into existence to say.
Then it leaves the stage.
It doesn’t help the next one up or the previous one down.
It doesn’t wave to its friend in the audience
Or pause to be acknowledged or applauded. 
It doesn’t talk about what it’s saying.
It simply says its piece and leaves the stage."

Don’t Read My Diary

Today’s entry is short and complete.

2023

“For my real life to be bigger than my online life.” I owe that to myself. Whether texting, DMing etc. I want the real deal. I don’t want to live through my phone and I owe it to no one to give them life.

I wrote this when I was motivating myself to finally archive, record and share my creativity. I have no idea where I got this quote from but I can imagine what I was contemplating. With our friends and families not all living near us, so much of keeping up with our people is already with our phones. It’s a global modern struggle. Now, layer emailing and DMing with coworkers/clients which also happens online. I was nervous that if I were to prioritize sharing and connecting, communicating online would outgrow my real life. There are benefits to the collaborations and friendships that form, which likely wouldn’t exist otherwise. This week I felt energized by my collaborations, one with a podcast host that I connected with through Substack and another with a Nigeria-based UX designer I met through the “Where are the black designers” Slack group. But the more I connect through my phone, the less I’m able to spend time with nature and with my loved ones in person. “The real deal” implies sensory experiences, my desire to feel, touch, smell. I think this is why people love going on vacation so much because it tends to be a protected time where we mainly prioritize what’s going on in front of us.

Yet there is a universal philosophical questioning that we face: what even constitutes “real life?” The lines between our real lives and our online lives tend to blur. For people who have limitations with their physical mobility or neurodivergence, the digital world might make real life possible. And we’ve seen for a long time now how people experience real love digitally. Still, I’ve always wondered how our brains respond to reading a text versus hearing it in person. For example, which parts of my brain would fire when reading a text that says, “I’m here for you” versus feeling someone in front of me say “I’m here for you” whether in sign language or spoken.

I know what doesn’t feel real— it’s texting for hours after editing a reel for my creative instagram page, answering emails and scrolling through Instagram. The goal, then, might be to make sure that most of our day are spent in moments that feel real.

Questions I thought about:

• What percentage of your interactions with others are online versus in person?

• When does life feel the most real to you?

• How do you feel when you haven’t spoken a loved one in a couple of weeks? Less close or the same?

I’ve been thinking about the friends I’ve lost, the friendships that stretched and never went back to original form. I’ve been thinking about my parents’ inevitable death. I’ve been helping them with their will, calling lawyers and helping them answer questions about their preferred executor and desired medical care. I go in and out of resenting my brother. Despising him at times, growing tired of his bullshit.

Normally, certainty comforts me. But the predictability is only feeding the uneasiness. My other brother’s empty seat at Christmas dinner. My mom not letting us rest. Another Christmas movie where they prep for the pageant. I have found myself pleading for the unpredictable, yet I can backseat direct every scene. I’ve seen so many movies. It’s all a remake. Just as I predicted, my future father-in-law thought my painting-by-numbers gift was too feminine, immediately giving it to his wife. It’s the same old script: when a woman cooks, she’s just cooking; men are the chefs. When the paintings reach genius level, the painter must transform into a man. Bring in the transphobia.

God it’s all so boring.

Being annoyed by my brother is predictable. It’s followed by my immediate need to control by wishing things were different. It’s like my anxiety wondering why someone is mad at me, why they don’t want to be friends anymore, why they moved back to New York without telling me. I think up ways I could be a better friend. Boring.

I tried to watch a Marvel movie with mans, told him it was my favorite universe. I became bored even during the climax. I don’t want to watch another character on television pour themselves a glass of wine after a long day, or see one more group of guys drinking whiskey neat at the office. Is this the only way people de-stress? Every scripted career is the same. There’s always a lawyer trying to make partner. How many fucking lawyers are there? Insert plotline about the main character who is a social media influencer with 200,000 followers who does a campaign and then, voila, it goes viral, thereby saving the day. Do filmmakers only have one deck of options until the expansion pack comes out? I’m even afraid to watch Dave Chappelle’s new comedy special because I’m worried it’ll be predictable. His last special was so bad, so cringe, a 60-minute defense. I didn’t laugh once.

Everyone around me is using the same deck too. My friend who disappears for a week only to reappear with the exact same text: “Ugh, sorry guys, it’s been a crazy week! I can’t wait to tell you about it.” Another friend obsessing over their latest fling to avoid intimacy. I’m even afraid to meet up with one friend because all they’ll talk about is other people. I don’t think I can go to another fucking birthday party where the bar is so loud I can’t hear a thing and I leave feeling more disconnected than before I arrived. And if one more acquaintance says we should get coffee… How about, “I genuinely hope we bump into each other again, bye!”

My biggest gripe with racism and sexism? It’s fucking boring! Oooh, you think Black people are lesser than? Seriously? That’s all you can come up with? It’s unimaginative, like taking a bite out of flavorless, stale-ass bread. When my brother and I fought once and he finally grasped for “You’re a slut!” I was embarrassed for him. Imagine having not one but two languages at your disposal and all you can rely on is a story that’s been on loop for thousands of years, the whorish woman. It’s like when my friend moved to LA. On his first day, a person without a home yelled the N-word across the street. Even down bad, the man could take shelter under racism. Fucking yawn.

I wake up and try to stay informed, but even the tragedies are remakes. I woke up to two shootings the other day. A Jewish temple in Australia. Brown University. Walk through Europe and you’ll see in every city a Jewish ghetto, because Jewish people were written as devilish for hundreds of years. There is nothing special about your antisemitism, get a fucking grip, you’re boring. And taking someone’s life? Really? That’s been done before!

It takes me back to freshman year. Finals week. Our hearts racing, bodies unsteady. Whispers across the library rows. A shooting. An elementary school. Sandy Hook. Checking our phones every few minutes, nothing else mattered. This time, in 2025, I got dressed and went to work in the same rhythm I always do. You know how fucking boring you have to be in 2026 to locate a gun and decide you’re going to stop someone’s breath?

I still feel Luigi shouldn’t have taken someone’s life (again, been there, done that). But the story only got interesting because the public didn’t reprimand him. Then they became fascinated by their own lack of reprimand. I’ll admit, it was surprising. The desensitization because they weren’t there to see bullet hit flesh? That’s nothing new.

The new diamond on my finger jolts me out of the sameness. It flickers back at me like my little companion, still getting used to its new home. Having a fiancé feels exciting. Did his butt get better or is he just hotter because he’s now my fiancé? Have we agreed to annoy each other for the rest of our lives? Yes. Is that nuts? Yes. Do I have regrets? No, I adore him. He told his family that in two years, we’ll want to move to the suburbs. I don’t remember agreeing to that. What if I drown in the predictability of it all?

Now, as my brother turns 40 in two months, I feel premature boredom at what’s to come. He’ll be an unfunctional adult, not contributing to our home, probably threatening homelessness in the city. And he’ll last two hours, not making it further than Grand Central, just as expected. Jesus, at least last a night, meet a friend, come back with a story.

Someone denying the societal comfort that comes with fitting into two boxes–now that’s interesting. A male that feels more at peace when they’re presenting as a woman? A female saying goodbye to boobs because she would prefer without? Because from her side, the universe is playing some sick reverse joke on her. You can’t at least admit that’s not boring? Shaming and constraining people for not fitting into the two ways to express gender though? That’s been done forever. Have some fucking creativity.

I can now predict the post-punchline hyperbole of a stand-up routine. And I had to walk out of one stand-up show because every punchline was “FAT” and “GAY.” You mean to tell me in this whole goddamn universe all you could think of was the excess body fat on a person’s body and same sex attraction? Ha! Maybe Mandani won because we are all so bored. Another creepy, out of touch guy or a democratic socialist from Queens who’s Muslim and South Asian?

The recent combinations of AI models have been mildly interesting. It’s sweet that we all have these little language models comforting us while we type the play-by-play of fights with our partners. But now I have to read through many boring words. I need rescuing from the “it’s not just!” “This movie isn’t just about two people falling in love, it’s about class and race and…” No.

I used to like Love is Blind. I even sobbed as I watched one season as I realized I too wanted love. Don’t bother now, I’ll tell you the ending: the anxiously attached will end up with the avoidantly attached, they’ll push and pull and pull and push. Like us, they too have intimacy fears. She’ll be repulsed at the first sign of imperfection, he’ll feel unsettled that she’s eager to love him.

I’ve watched companies use the good old reverse-archiving tactic on their DEI programs. Like how the French hurled Joan of Arc’s belongings into the sea, trying to erase her from history, completely. They cut budgets, yes. But more importantly, they burned the evidence of inclusivity, deleting digital archives, following the same, tiresome, imitative script used by sculptors of history who amputate our records, call what’s remaining “the past” and insist that conserving this created history is simply an ideal—they are conservatives while some are liberal for asking to restore the very parts that have been deleted yet crazy for feeling the phantom pain of the missing pieces the sculptors pretend never existed. It’s an endless sequel. Even Trump was briefly captivating, throwing paper towels in 2017 in Puerto Rico. The collective bewilderment from his unpredictable next line. Now he’s nauseating and exhausting, the emperor with the same bullshit moves.

I could chart the melody of every political speech. I could chart the upspeak of our generation. I’m traversing a graph with no directed edges, finding myself screaming in this cycle. At the same time that humans are welcoming language learning models which are essentially formulas of prediction, guessing the next word or noise, we have become more like them. Obvious. The models helped reveal how fucking boring we’ve become. Or have always been.

At least embroidering while I watch TV is lifting my spirits.

And to think I recently found myself in a friends-to-lover trope.

I’m fucking boring too.

About the Author: Veronica is a software engineer, hybrid storyteller and, like many, a late-bloomer artist. She uses words, code, dance and art to tell stories, threading community throughout.

Don’t Read My Diary

Today’s entry was written by Catherine, a writer and coach based in Philly. Catherine recently took a leap and left the tech industry to pursue her passions full time. Like many entrepreneurs, she’s struggling to comfortably promote her business and own her creativity. She wrote this as she reflected on the shadows that could be directing her moves.

Dec 7th 2025

It didn’t click until I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning - Ugly ass cry

I’m a writer

I’M A FUCKING WRITER

Yoooo I’m a writer!

The idea that you are what you go to school for…

Years of writing classes, authortube, NanoWrimo, endless books on the writing process and style, questioning what my style is…reading my word of the day so that I can expand my vocabulary and sound more like a real writer

Señores what the fuck is a real writer? Why do I so badly want to be seen that way?

The overexplaining

The need to be perceived the “right way”

Manipulation of perception

not wanting to be misunderstood

Not sharing until it’s good enough until it meets “real writers” standards.

Today I did a brave thing. I submitted a writers grant application!

Last night I was still on the fence, still running away.

Maybe I could edit a little more, maybe I just make this scene a little more dramatic.

Tinkering and tinkering

What the fuck am I afraid of anyway? That they’ll say no?

Nahh… it’s more like - “ Why does she think she’s a writer?”

The voices in my head say

“She’s never published anything”

“She never went to school for it”

“She don’t got good grammar”

Looking in the mirror I realized why I felt this way

Why I minimize, shrink, hide the writer in me, the voice in me

The muse that I’ve shut in the closet over and over again

I only let HER come out to play when I have free time

On the weekends

When my To-Do list is done

So many other things that I have put before HER

I sincerely apologize to all the words buried in my cells screaming to be heard

I apologize to my throat chakra for dismissing it’s expression

My sacral for telling my inner child that creativity is a waste of time,

My root for not creating a safe page

Solar- I’m sorry for not letting you shine

Heart - apologies for the lack of self-love

Third eye - for the times I couldn’t see my higher self

Crown - I’m sorry for blocking the channel to my ancestors

I realized I don’t tell people I’m a writer because I have no accolades for it

I didn’t go to school for it

I was in ESL

I still can’t pronounce a lot of words “correctly”

I think in Spanish but write in English and it gets confusing

My writing is fragmented

I either don’t finish the sentence and jump to another topic or run a sentence for miles…corriendo mas terreno than the herencia my family is still arguing about

December 8th 2025

Some days I let myself sit but the words don’t come out

Sometimes it feels like Mami is gonna open my diary and tell me how bad of a daughter I am

Sometimes I dread the question, “Did you publish that book yet?” “When is it going to be done?”

I want to crawl in a hole

I don’t write because my grammar is perfect

I don’t write because its a “chill” hobby

I don’t write because I’ve read all the great American novels and felt inspired

In fact I never thought of myself as an author at all - and maybe that’s redundant after already yapping about it for pages but I guess what I’m trying to say is that even after admitting, accepting that YES, I AM A FUCKING WRITER! It’s not about the titles

I write because it saves me

I write because I have shit to say

I write because somehow this gift allows me to share my highest form of expression

Writing strips me of other people’s expectations of me

Writing allows me to get shit off my back so the page can carry it

Writing allows my scattered, multi-passionate brain to process my thoughts and emotions

Writing reveals my truest self

When I can see HER clearly I can also see others clearly

Writing builds love and compassion for humanity’s beautiful flaws.

The page sees me and as a result I see HER.

I need to just let it… let the words pour wherever they land on the page. Let them scatter across the border, they were never meant to be contained anyway.

The Discussion

Jeez… did Catherine steal a page from my journal? Many of us could have written this entry ourselves.

As a friend, I felt proud reading these words, like when I witnessed my foster dog get her bark for the first time. Her bark was so loud she even surprised herself. She then ran back and forth on the bed, barking and barking, at herself.

This entry is a beautiful reckoning of an ego. As a loving reminder, our ego’s job is to keep track of three things: who we are, who we want to be and how we want others to perceive us. Our ego keeps track of things like your favorite movie and that you like to play chess. As we all know, our cute ego takes its job frighteningly seriously. Catherine’s ego seemed okay with adding “writer” to the list of things she wants to be. She mentions the “years of writing classes, AuthorTube” and reading “endless books,” all evidence to her ego that there is no question of her wanting to be a writer.

It seemed she was still struggling with the “who we are” part and the “how we want to be perceived by others” part. She still didn’t think she could call herself a writer and she wanted people to think she’s a “real writer,” imagining the doubtful thoughts others might have if she did pursue it confidently. Her ego was overwhelmed by not having a promotion plan for her to graduate from wanna-be writer to writer. I saw a perfectionism shadow, stepping in to continually move the goalposts, trying to convince her she’s only one more edit or class or an expanded vocabulary away from graduating. She was like an AI model that only wants to be trained over and over but never feels quite ready.

Internal Family Systems (IFS) is present, the psychological concept that we all have different parts within us with unique feelings and needs and ages. I struggled to find the cringiest1 part. But if there was one, and if someone wasn’t used to this idea, her talking to her parts (throat chakra, inner child, sacral) would have to be it. Though if you haven’t gotten on this train, I highly recommend it. Mine just have different names while my friend Zomely names hers after animals.

There’s a realization: “I AM A FUCKING WRITER!” Her ego understands she can proudly add “writer” to the record of who she is. And yet, I noticed an angst. She apologizes to all her unwritten words. “I apologize to all the words buried in my cells screaming to be heard.” She apologizes to her different selves for dismissing her self-expression, for not letting herself shine, for blocking herself, and more. We don’t talk about this enough. The universal, gut-wrenching mourning that comes with finally going after what you want and then having to grapple with all the time spent not embracing who you are. It’s this itchy “I want to crawl in a hole” feeling she alludes to.

We can see a theme of spirituality. Catherine mentions her higher self, and the chakras, the energy centers in the human body. She mentions how writing makes her more compassionate toward humanity, touching upon the philosophy of Interconnectedness, the idea that we are all related to other humans in some way. It’s clear that spirituality is a strong guide for her.

There’s also the relationship between our creativity and societal structures, creating a sense of legitimization and credibility. She admits to not feeling like a writer because of the lack of publications, official degrees or “accolades.” Her desire for creative security and legitimacy is complicated by her multilingual and multicultural life. She mentions, “I was in ESL” and “I think in Spanish but write in English and it gets confusing.”

Catherine also mentions the pressures of adulting, how she doesn’t let herself create until she crosses off the to-do list. Reminds me of the phrase, “Art before dishes.” Otherwise, our responsibilities might never end and we’ll never do the things we want to do. Or simply rest!

The why-she-writes list read like a love letter to writing. “I write because it saves me” made my eyes water. I wonder if it was eating away at her that she wasn’t owning it or taking more action. Maybe Catherine is… in love with writing… oooo should we tell her? It sounds like for years, she wasn’t tending to this immense love in her life. Or she was writing, but she was tortured by keeping this love hidden—a secret creative affair.

I was left with a question: is making and guiding others really even a choice for Catherine at all? It sounds like this is a part of her.

Questions I thought about:

1. Who have you not admitted you are yet?

2. How much evidence do you need to gather for you to finally accept you are?

3. Are you ok with being the thing even if that means you aren’t good at it? E.g, are you ok with playing the guitar for the rest of your life, even if you’re never good or great it? Do you like it that much?

If you’d like to collaborate on this column, submit your journal entry here.

What I’m Reading

Faces of Salsa by Leonardo Padura. A collection of interviews from some of the genre’s biggest influencers. I stayed up way past my bedtime this week, geeking over the stories of these icons who were incredible musicians, composers and producers but most of all impactful storytellers.

Several Short Sentences About Writing by Verlyn Klinkenborg. A craft book. A call to focus on getting better at sentences over anything else: genre, form, etc.

My Creative World

1. The medium is… community. Last weekend, I cohosted a beginner salsa class with Let’s Play NYC. It was an immediate hell yes when the founder, Sahara, reached out to collaborate. I’ve admired what the organization stands for: adult play. Let’s Play encourages us to remember what it’s all for, to move our bodies, to connect with others outside of the usual bars and coffee chats. And what better way to celebrate the last day of Black History month than to honor a dance that black people made? I was grateful when Sahara agreed to me teaching a mini history lesson on salsa’s afro roots before we got to grooving. If you want the “book report” I made when studying salsa’s history, let me know in the comments.

   

2. I started my first-ever drawing class this week, part of a five-week semester. We covered sketching and shading. The drawing instructor told us, “90% of rendering a drawing is in the sketching.” It reminded me of pseudocode in programming, where writing the logical flow is more important than the syntax of a coding language.

   

i cry about death because I am four

                                                     and my parents tell me, it happens. we grow old and        
                                                                                                                                    we die.

meaning, we’ll no longer exist.
i will no longer exist.
my parents, will no longer exist.

my stomach aches. nausea sets in. i can’t breathe.
i can’t imagine a world where my parents aren’t in it.
so we are going to be separated?

i cry
i don't want to die, i don't want you to die,
i don't want to die, i don't want you to die

                                                                                 they say no te preocupes 
                                                                                     there is a heaven where we’ll reunite

i cry

what if we all don’t make it to heaven? 
what if we’re not reunited? 
and will grandpa meet us there?


                                                                     
                                                                            they  
                                                                                       try
                                                                                              a  
                                                                                                   different                 
                                                                                                               angle.    
                          
                                                                                    
                                                                                                                well you know what, 
                                                                                                                sometimes when we die, 
                                                                                                     we come back as other people.

                                                                                                 reincarnation, they say.

there’s hope.
can we go see the person grandpa is now?

                                                                                     no mi niña, it doesn’t work that way.                       
                                                         he won’t know who we are anymore. he's a new person. 
                                                                                                                  he won’t recognize us.

i cry.
when I get a high fever, I cry.
i don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.
                                                               
                                                              ay chiquita, you’re not going to die, you’re just sick.

well sick people die.

                                                                                                     but you’re not going to die.

my brothers taunt me, 
their heads poking through the doorway,  
cackling while I sit on my parent’s bed, thermometer under my tongue. 
i worry this could be it.

when they tell me to do hail marys, 
i grab my rosary tightly, 
beads of sweat on my forehead. 
and I pray. 

i don’t want to be separated. i don’t want to go to hell.

they tell me people grow old. and eventually we die.
i learn that accidents can happen. and people can get sick.
and I didn’t like it. this whole death thing. this loving and then losing thing.

but here’s what I learned as I grew older.
i saw children die at school.
i saw people die at the movie theater.
at the club.
sitting in their car.
at work.

here’s what my parents didn’t tell me.
it might not be old age, or sickness or an accident.
you can die, you can lose your human life 
because another human decides it so.

another human can hold a piece of metal to you and say,
your breath? not worthy. your life? not worthy.

one human life can take another human life.
imagine explaining that to my four-year-old self

i don’t want to die. i don’t want to die.

                                                                                                          we’re all going to die. 
                                                                             and you could die because another person                    
                                                                                                                                       decides.

why?


                                                                            they can get angry and they can kill you.

but can they do that?
is that gonna happen to me?

                                                         no no, it won’t happen to you. you’re going to be fine.

is that going to happen to you?

                                                                                                    no no, we’re all going to be ok.

but how do you know?
and do others know?
and how is that fair?

mami?!
papi?!

how is that fair?
why can I die because another person decides it? 
why can another person kill me?

does everyone know?
can you stop them?
i don’t want to die because someone else kills me.

how is that fair?

how is that fair?

how is that fair?

Originally published by Mixed Magazine, November 2021.

My mom, a daycare owner for the past 30 years and previously a pre-school teacher, has helped raise over 100 children in her lifetime.

She says that every so often, a child is extremely preoccupied with death. I was one of those kids.

Veronica is a hybrid storyteller and software engineer. She uses words, code, art and dance to tell stories, threading community throughout. Veronica's stories have been published by The Acentos Review, Ranger Magazine and Dominican Writers Association. Her writing allows for the exploration of truth, as well as a playful tool for observing human behavior.

Join me every other week as I step away from my original work. We’ll get honest and raw by analyzing an unedited1, and often cringe, journal entry. I’ll share what I’m reading and tell you what’s new from my creative world. Submit your entry here.

Don’t Read My Diary

July 2024

I release my fear that love will suffocate me. The fear that when someone loves me and when I choose them, they are going to eat me alive. First they'll take my time—next thing you know I'm not writing, or dancing. Their love will burden me. I release the fear that love is suffocating, a slow death by codependency.

I release the belief/fear that love hurts. That I can't hold love in my body because it's too big, too much, too hurtful. I release the immediate sadness followed by the thought that I love someone. The immediate fear that I won't survive losing them. I release pushing love away because of this fear.

I release the mechanisms I use to push away love. How I break apart each person until they are pieces of flaws. How I become intolerant of their imperfection. Their squishy body. The noise that seems out of place. I release the hold this mechanism has on me. That it makes me want to reject, to get validation from my friends that they are in fact beautiful. Because they feel like a reflection of me and I try to be perfect.

I release the idea that I have to choose between love and my dreams. That if I choose love, my dreams won’t have any room. Same goes w/family. If I choose to have a family, I won’t be able to have my artistic dreams. They’ll fall by the wayside. I release the fear that love means not creating. I release the idea that we can’t be stable and create. Because I am steady and grounded and this is part of me.

I release pushing love away. I release not wanting to be seen. I release the fear of someone hearing me pee, seeing me sick, judging my condition. I release any shame in my full human expression.

I wrote this at a writer’s retreat after they asked us to write down what we wanted to quietly release into the ocean. The bold words are what I underlined on the paper. We can see the universal moment where someone is trying to dismantle beliefs that have been held, consciously and subconsciously, for a long time. I felt humbled reading this now because it’s so real, human and frighteningly honest, revealing the shadows of love. Even now, I can still relate to these fears.

From a psychological perspective, I recognize the classic avoidant attachment defense where intimacy is perceived as a threat to autonomy (“love will suffocate me”). I also see the infamous “ick” where I describe becoming “intolerant of their imperfection,” often used as a protective mechanism to achieve true intimacy. I laughed at “eat me alive,” so adorably dramatic yet real to my ego.

There’s also a theme of anticipatory grief. We tend to be terrified of truly loving because we worry we won’t survive the inevitable loss. It’s like feeling the pain of the funeral while on the first date or at the first birthday. Some call it rehearsing tragedy, Brené Brown calls it “Foreboding Joy.” It’s a natural defense mechanism our minds use to try to prepare us… and it sucks! Especially when it succeeds in convincing us to push away love or joy.

I’m also fascinated by the overlap between love and creativity that’s present again. I seem to sway between talking about relationships and living a creative life, using phrases that apply to both, like “not wanting to be seen” and “they feel like a reflection of me and I try to be perfect.” They could also be the things we make.

Finally, I see the archetype of the suffering or starving artist. I express a belief that creating and stability can’t coexist—that if I were to choose a domestic, family life, my artistic life would melt away. This is a common sentiment I’ve heard among children of immigrants. We often think parenthood means the loss of self because so many of our parents had to focus entirely on survival. It’s a fear I still have around having children.

Questions I thought about:

1. When does the “ick” come up for you and what is it trying to protect?

2. What are some ways that stability and family could nurture your passions?

3. In what areas of your life, love or art, does being seen feel more dangerous?

4. What would rehearsing joy look like?

What I’m Reading

I just finished Agridulce, a poetry collection that discusses the bittersweet nature of relationships. It’s also the firstborn of Dhayana Alejandrina’s writing career, and there’s something delicate about holding someone’s firstborn in your hands. When you begin putting yourself out there too, you know it took so much for them to bring it into the world.

And I finished, the Alchemy of Grief: Conversations in Paint by Deborah Kadagian, about the paintings that poured out of her as she was processing the grief of the absolute unimaginable, the passing of her son. As I read it, I thought to myself, “how is she managing to make me feel heart-wrenched yet deeply soothed, as if she was the one comforting me through her grief?” I’m grateful that she channeled enough stillness to remember the details of the years that passed to share them with others. I was particularly inspired by her vulnerability in tackling a blank canvas with no plan, using art as pure self-expression. Halfway through, I was inspired to pick up a brush and start painting myself, though not so comfortable with not having a plan.

My Creative World

My essay, “Recycling Love” was selected to be a part of Creative Stillness, an anthology that comes out this spring! Announced here. Without giving too much away, this essay captures a moment in time where writing, reflection and metaphor step in to help me process a universally human experience, not to be revealed yet (because a true writer, edges; Dad, don’t read this).

I’m also intrigued by the dichotomy between the world right now—a blizzard in NYC, a fucking societal blizzard in this country—and here we have Creative Stillness, representing a sense of peacefulness a lot of us aren’t feeling right now. Perhaps the ability to channel a creative stillness is what we need.

Disparate thoughts and memories.

i.

On a summer day in Versailles, we sit in the backyard with a couple who has invited us, two strangers, into their home. We all listen to my dad intently as he tells us the story behind a song they liked, Comandante Che Guevara. His voice is soft and humble, yet confident as he shares how Guevara’s story connects to the rest of world history. I watch as the couple’s heads cock to the same side, their entire bodies shifted forward, soft smiles on their lips. Throughout dinner, they hang on every word. They’re falling in love with him. I realize this because I have so many times. I remember walking with him through a church in Montreal. “It’s beautiful to be here. You can feel the prayers of all the people who came before you,” he whispered. My heart didn’t stand a chance.

ii.

His whole body flails as he runs back and forth pointing to the projector. He speaks with the feverish enthusiasm of an ex-teacher. The room is giddy, even taking notes. For a moment, we are his pupils. How he convinced Google to let him teach a two-hour seminar on English colonialism is still a delightful mystery to me. The admiration spreads throughout the room as his passion makes history more digestible. When he passes, I fall to the ground and wail. Hundreds of people around the country emerge to admit that they too fell in love with Kapil. I feel outraged because I never got to tell him…

iii.

They say you love your mom but you’re in love with a girlfriend/boyfriend. I have felt since I was young that falling in love doesn’t only apply romantically.

iv.

When my friend Chelsey does her signature EDM footwork, my heart dances too. When we show my mom a Starbucks drive-thru and she shrieks with surprise, exclaiming how modern the world has become, my cousin and I are in awe. Because it’s 2019… and my mom is just too cute.

My younger cousin is around a lot. We giggle as we snuggle in bed; I watch every step she takes in the world, amazed that this once-double-jointed kid is becoming a grown woman. She must feel the same way because before I go away for a few months, she writes 52 reasons why I love you on every card in a deck.

And I’ve seen the way people fall in love with their babies. Slowly, the baby steals their hearts. First when they smile at you, then their little burps, their teeny toenails and other unbelievable features—from what I hear, the love can be intoxicating, mesmerizing, heart-wrenching.

v.

When you spend enough time with another human, you fall in love. You’ll notice their specific choreography.

I still remember how a lover’s eyes would crinkle when he blinked involuntarily as he spoke. Sometimes it happens fast, and sometimes slowly. Almost always, it happens because of our little idiosyncrasies. I miss the way the doorman in my old building had a serious, quick head nod every time he made eye contact with a tenant. He was reserved but the softness of his smile revealed a huge heart. Even with a friend I’ve since lost touch with, I can still hear the melodic, drawn-out way she’d say, ‘yeaaaaaaah,’ and I can’t help but smile.

vi.

“What? You’re breaking up with me?” He tells me that we never got to the point where we loved each other. And I agree. Although now I know what that really means… that neither of us got to the point where we wanted to be in relationship together, to build a life together. But I still smile when I hear his wild cackle in my head, and I can still smell the sweet vanilla cologne that hugged his clothes. And my eyes still roll at the thought of his over-teasing. Maybe I didn’t love him like that, but there’s no way we didn’t fall in love with each other. Just a teensy bit.

vii.

If a parent is lucky, they’ll get the chance to not only love their child but fall in love with them. That only happens when they realize their child is a whole, unique person, separate from them, feathered with their own quirks and engravings.

viii.

If you stare at someone long enough, you’ll fall in love with them. I have this theory. It’s crazy but maybe you won’t think so? I think seeing videos of people sleeping or pictures of people reading would lead to more world peace. I want to see someone watch the rise and fall of the belly of someone whom they were taught to hate. I want to watch them take in the peaceful expression of the person’s sleeping face. And reading? I don’t know. I think people seem utterly human when they focus on the page. I would love to see pictures of all types of people reading around the world.

ix.

Other ways to fall in love.

If you ask a person “why” enough times. Why do you love that TV show so much? What really drew you to become a lawyer or study public health? What is it about the color purple that makes you love it? When you place someone on show and tell and let them speak about something they’re passionate about, their unique spirit comes through. When you watch someone else take them in and you get to see them through another’s eyes. When you see that the light in them is also the light in you.

When you read their writing.

About the Author: Veronica is a hybrid storyteller and software engineer who weaves words, tech, dance and art to tell stories. She makes art for her ancestors who couldn’t walk down that road and especially for those who couldn’t even see the creative path.

Join me every other week as I step away from my original work. We’ll get honest and raw by analyzing an unedited1, and often cringe, journal entry. I’ll share what I’m reading and tell you what’s new from my creative world.

Don’t Read My Diary

November 18, 2002

This book is about parents because parents are the people who give you food and take good care of you. Moms are really nice they are the ones who usully cook. Dads are really nice too. They play with you and they love you. Anyway lets go back to the story. Parents love you and you should love them. My name is Veronica and I have the best parents. I usually see my mom because she works inside her house. My dad usually comes at 8:00 PM. I don't really get to see my dad that much. My parents are really nice I love them.

December 2, 2002

I go to after school pragram. I go to Math Games and group games. Both of them are fun. I like Math Games the most. next monday where going to make our own bord game. The teacher's name for Math Game is called Miss Petterson.

December 3, 2002

My mom babysits kids. She babysits babys, toddlers and kids that go to school. She likes babysitting kids. When I come from school I see her babysitting. She babysits this annoying little baby who crys a lot. My mom loves her Job!

December 18, 2002

Our winter concert. Miss Massa’s class does the concert with Mrs. Rioses class. We sing Jolly oh St. Nickeloos and Peace I leave with you. My mom is coming. I hope she says I really sing good. I’m also a speacker. I have to say “Thank you for coming to our concert.”

December 25, 2002

On Christmas my family woke up. We all opened our presents. Then my brother went to play with his friend Steven. I stayed watching T.V. I watched some Christmas movies. Then I went to brodway with my brother Jorge. There was a huge bliserd. When we where coming back from brodway the wind was pushing me back. When we came back me and Jorge did pizza and watched the movie My Dog Skip. Then we went to Jorges room and watched Stuart Little 2.

January 9, 2003

I love my walkmin. I love using it. I love heoring my casets. My walkmin also has a radio. I like hearing the chanel Z100. On my birthday I wanted a CD player but my mom said if you buy a caset player we can’t record songs so I said ok. And from now on I loved my caset player. But I also hope that people would make a CD player a radio and a ceset player at the same time.

January 18, 2003

Today my brother is going to paint my nails. I will have pictures on my nails. Miss Massa will see them tommoro. He promised a long time ago. He never did it till now.

January 23, 2003

Then we went home and we were going to paint. I put my paper on the easel. Then I started painting. I had a palette and paint brushes. Then I asked my mom if I can paint on canvas and she said “yes.” Then I put my painting on exhibition. My mom said “I was a good painter.” I said I want to be a acter. So she said “O.K.” Then she put me in acting class. We were going to put on a play. We needed props. My mom got proud of me. Then when I growed up I was a actress. I got famous. Then when I was 63 years old I retired.

January 28, 2003

I saw my brother and my cousin play chess. My cousin thought he was going to win. My brother won he was so happy. He thought he was the king of chess in my house. I think it is my dad.

February 10, 2003

My uncle bought my two brothers and me 3 piggybanks one for each of us. Every Friday he sees if we were behaving good and if we were then he puts five dollars in our piggybank. But if we behave bad then he dous not. I got a lot of mony. I really don’t know what I will be doing with it.

February 11, 2003

Since my dad comes really late my mom asked her friend if she could take her to Sam’s Club and her friend said yes. We went to Sam’s Club and my mom got me a cool book. I started to read it. Chapter one and two were really good. When I was going to go to bed I read chapter three. It was better than the other ones.

March 24, 2003

We went to the libery today with my brother Frederick, brother Jorge and my dad. I did my homework and read a book. I even took out some books.

I love going to the libery because you can do a lot of reserch and play on the computer. My mom said from now on we’re going to come here every Thursday.

May 4 2003

Mrs. Henry glad your back I missed you a lot I was waiting for you a long time. I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your wedding.

May 27 2003

I really want to know what the bread which is Jesus body taste like. I am so excited because I never ate Jesus body.

June 10 2003

I did my first holy communion today it was great because a lot of people liked my dress and gave me presents like 50 dollars. I ate Jesu’s’s body and drank Jesus’s blood.

There was no cringe this week because how can 8-year-olds be cringe!? I was mainly just laughing and yearning.

We have a rapid-fire analysis this morning but I am open to hearing your perspective on what other themes you see.

Though this notebook was for school, all my journals around this time were in English, despite being raised in a Spanish-speaking household. My guess as to why I felt more comfortable in English is because I was put in a premature preschool program when I was 3 years old where I was exposed to English, and because Spanglish wasn’t encouraged at the time. I’m reminded of how there are many options for how to teach children our native tongues2.

Kids are aware of a lot. I mention my mom being the one who cooks and generalize this behavior to all moms, an observation increased in perception by my neighbors and family. I observe how she reacts to her job of owning a daycare and I assume, “she loves her job!” Did my mom ever tell me that, or did I notice her body language?

Kids are honest and literal. I think the bread is in fact Jesus’ body. I watch my brother exclaim he’s the best at chess. I slyly write, “I think it’s my dad.” I describe parents as our dog would describe our family, “They give you food and take good care of you.” That’s it, sorry parents!

The library was a sanctuary for me, showing how important free, public spaces are. We didn’t have disposable income when I was growing up, so it’s clear the library was my indoor playground. My also-free after-school program is present a lot throughout this journal, with excited references to math games that made learning more fun for me.

Here’s where it gets more profound. Like all of us, as an adult, I’ve developed specific views of my childhood and life. Here are a couple of beliefs I’ve had over the last few years:

1. My eldest brother, whom I have a complicated relationship with, became blurry in my mind. Since age 18, I haven’t felt the weight of having older brothers. I view them as not being present.

2. My parents didn’t have time to nurture my inner artist. As I mourned all the time I spent not feeling secure enough to own my creativity, I found myself wishing I had parents who hosted little art shows for me and fantasizing about all the ways I’ll support my children. I wrote about how we can be our own parents to our creative selves.

These beliefs were challenged when my parents recently found this journal in my school homework pile and I saw its contents for the first time.

When I read about the walks with my brother after Christmas and him painting my nails, I was reminded of the different stories our bodies hold, even if our minds don’t remember. It highlighted why my heart hurt from losing him to addiction and mental illness, even when my mind is mostly detached at this point. My body knows of the times I felt calm as I watched a movie next to my cooler, older brother.

I write about painting with my mom. She lets me put my painting on “exhibition” and I note how she says I’m a good painter. There was also a mention of a karaoke toy that I received for Christmas, their way of supporting my liking singing.

The elephant in the room for me is: What about those of us who don’t have journals to look back on that may show us a different side of our beliefs? What do we do? Do we ask our parents, if we are still have access to them? Do we write down the stories we do remember? I need to sit with this more.

There is the need for the approval of the adults around me—and to be witnessed by them. “I hope she says I really sing good,” I exclaim about my mom coming to my concert. I’m also excited about my teacher, “Ms. Massa,” seeing my nails. I remember Ms. Massa, who became Mrs. Henry during the school year. I adored her. Knowing me, I probably didn’t even show her my nails, but had these thoughts quietly. I even apologize for missing her wedding, though I doubt I was invited. It shows the power of these adult figures in our lives. It reminds me of my friend; she teaches children chess in an after-school program. One girl has grown fond of my friend, telling her she goes to chess only because my friend teaches.

Other random themes that aren’t inherently bad. My uncle’s support and presence (See: not realizing I was this supported by the adults around me). Him showing us that if we behave well, we’ll get money in our piggy bank. Oooh, learning the power of bribery so young. Or is it positive reinforcement? Parents, you tell me. I’m highly aware of money and happy when I get it, like the money received as gifts from my Holy Communion.

Kids are aware of time and the future. I write about being excited about next week where I’ll get to make my own board game. I’m reminded to give kids (and adults), something to look forward to. There’s also a blend of reality and imagination — one moment I’m painting with my mom, the next moment I’m a famous, 63-year-old retired actress!

Question I thought about:

• If we all want to be witnessed, can I straight up just ask kids and adults. “What do you want me to know about you? Is there anything different about you lately that you want me to know?”

What I’m Reading

Agridulce by Dhayana Alejandrina, a poetry and prose chapbook. She’s a writer and community curator I’ve admired from afar for some time. I’ve been guilty of stalking her website and observing how she tells the story of who she is. Last year, she had a special offer where she allowed readers to ask her a question with the purchase of her book. She sent me a generous, handwritten letter answering my contemplation about where to go from here with my writing. Her wisdom hangs over my desk now.

I love this poem about how difficult it is to mourn someone who was never ours:

My Creative World

I’ve been playing around with short choreography as self-expression. I haven’t done that since high school when I choreographed my class’ dance for spirit week! Side note: Remember when we used to make up dances in middle school? I recall a full routine to Akon’s “Smack That” at my friend’s 5th-grade Christmas party. We were all mini choreographers!

Here’s a draft edit of me dancing with my art. It’s an ode to our spirit, how it tends to be the first to wilt when we’re not where we desire to be.

“I ran and I ran, until I made it to the train tracks.”

My friend’s grandpa spoke through the screen. I know all grandmas and grandpas are cute, but he was really cute. He had this perfectly-round face and dimples, the same dimples Sophie has. His eyes are warm, like he knows a delightful secret, and they’re also pleading and honest. He wore oval glasses and a smile on his face.

I remember when he came to speak to us in middle school. We sat inside on these gray, makeshift bleachers and listened to him recount stories from being a teenager. We were on the edge of our seats as he told us his lessons from being a psychoanalyst. He was extraordinary, and by the look of adoration in Sophie’s eyes, he was not only her hero but her friend.

Ten years later, as a couple of twenty-something-year-olds trying to navigate life in the real world, Sophie and I sat in a bar in the Lower East Side. We were having one of our usual deep conversations. She told me she dreamt of making a documentary film about her grandpa. She had wanted to be an actress ever since I had known her, but while studying acting in college, she let her heart remain just open enough to hear her own whisper, that her truest passion was actually directing.

Years later, when I sat on the couch with my friend Colleen at a watch party of two, I was thrilled. Sophie had really done it. She had traveled to get the footage, she had raised enough money, and she had done it.

“I ran and I ran, until I made it to the train tracks.”

Zaida (Yiddish for grandpa) was twelve at the time. He tells the interviewer that after running for his life and onto the train, he catches his breath, likely still in disbelief from his escape. He describes a man sitting on the train who turns around and spots him. Zaida says he thinks the man knew where he was coming from. I think the man buys him a meal.

I can’t remember the other fine details today, only that at twelve years old, Zaida managed to escape a Holocaust concentration camp, forced to separate from his mother. I know he eventually made his way to the U.S., but the middle is a blur.

The reason I can’t remember more is because while I watched, one thing stayed with me while another gnawed at me. I was so proud of Sophie. She honored her grandpa while he was still alive and preserved his stories. He even got the chance to watch the documentary and see himself through her eyes. But a question bothered me: Wait, where was the guy going on the train? People were just… taking trains? For months, this guy would pop up in my head. There were people with places to go? I spoke with Sophie about it. I think she told me he was likely on a work trip or skiing.

People were going to work or skiing, during the Holocaust.

Is my shock naive or embarrassing? Maybe. But I genuinely imagined the world stopping when the Holocaust happened. You have to understand that inside of me, there’s also a kid who learned history from the adults I looked up to and believed. And we learned history in silos. When we learned one aspect of history, it was like a stage light turned on and highlighted that part, while the rest of the stage went black. Nothing else existed. They told me about Germany and the countries that sided with them. I read stories of victims like Anne Frank and the people who sided with her. No one ever told me about the guys on trains on their way to work or to ski. Those people aren’t a significant part of the story; they’re covered by the darkness on the stage.

Yet it was all I could think about.

I felt ashamed at how many times I have been the guy on the train. I reflected, what is going on in the world right now as I sit on the subway on my way to work? I felt angry, wanting to yell at the guys on the train to stop going to work, to stop. There are twelve-year-olds dying.

In history, we hear from the winners, and if we are lucky, we hear from the losers—but usually only if the losers become winners later. I want to hear about the guys on the train. I want to hear what they cared about. Maybe he didn’t think this was his problem because it wasn’t affecting his people. Maybe he was on his way to fight his own fight, protesting his own issues. Was he too depleted to see the intersectionality between what was happening outside the window and his own people’s problems? Or maybe he was an anti-Holocaust activist, taking a much-needed day off to feel joy and to remember why it all matters.

Animations by Zachary Antell; Dialogue from the documentary is paraphrased for this first iteration of this essay.

About the Author: Veronica is a hybrid storyteller and software engineer who weaves words, tech, dance and art to tell stories. As a proud Black woman and the daughter of Dominican immigrants, she brings a vital, intersectional perspective to her work. Veronica's stories have been featured in publications like The Acentos Review, Ranger Magazine and The Latinx Poetry Project. She’s an active contributor to the Dominican Writers Association and is the author of a newsletter 'To Get To the Mango Tree,' which reaches hundreds of readers. Veronica makes art for her ancestors who couldn't walk down that road and especially... for those who couldn't even see the creative path.

Join me every other week as I step away from my original work. We’ll get honest and raw by analyzing an unedited1, and often cringe, journal entry. I’ll share what I’m reading and tell you what’s new from my creative world.

Don’t Read My Diary

Monday, July 6, 2021

I’m afraid to write today. I am feeling ashamed around drinking. I think my body is feeling anxious so I’m drinking more. There’s no rush. That and clearly I’m bored if that’s the option. That basically means I should sit my ass home. I’m gonna forgive myself BUT I’m gonna be strict with myself. Bc one bad habit leads to more. Like sleeping in or not being able to do anything or not waking up to study. And honestly, it’s a good thing that I won’t be able to drink. Clearly drinking is the drug of choice for everyone and so much of life revolves around it. But also bc IPAS apparently do not vibe with me.

I wanna slow down and I wanna focus on what I care about. Hyped we went to Comedy Cellar but daaaaamn. More so reflecting on this long weekend and what I did. Glad my apt is coming together and that I hosted my fam. But way too much socializing and partying. Ok, at least I’m checking in with myself. I know the world opened up but damn.

Tuesday, July 7, 2021

Yesterday I spent the whole day feeling depressed. About time. Time, time, time. I was thinking about wasting it, not doing right by it. Damn. I was hungover and upset and I felt shame. Shame around drinking but more so shame on time. I realized I’m 27 and I’ve been doing the same shit for 10+ years. Everyday is a chance to start over and that’s what I want. I want to create and make and feel. Not numb. Maybe all of this was resistance. Resistance to feel what I don’t want to feel. Maybe if I spend my time anxious about others and men, I’ll never have to create and move on. I get it. But it’s also not just that. It’s the existential emptiness that I’ve always felt. The emptiness in my stomach, wanting to stop the whole world and say “Can we talk about the fact that I feel empty and we only get one life? Fuck.” So I let myself do whatever yesterday and I focused on the basics—nutrition, running, creating. I think I was meant to show ppl what I see and feel. To try to explain the world thru my perspective. I’ve always been good at that. It doesn’t matter the medium, I think I was meant to express. Is that why I have a guilty/empty feeling? Bc I know I’m not doing what I’m supposed to do? Maybe.

I want to keep doing work this week and just posting it. Not thinking and saving. It’s not about getting things published. It’s being who I am. The resistance to being who I am is what’s killing me. It’s ok to be me. I want to be me. I want to live a full & creative life. Even the resistance I feel towards writing these stories for work. Reminds me of my essay process. Take me weeks and it ain’t cool. It’s resistance.

Today I’ll finally do my workout and I’ll just sit w/ myself. Clearly (judging by my mini shot), I’m trying to escape from something. Not sure what it is but I’m going to spend time w/ myself.

Hm, the cringiest part? Oof, all of it.

I remember this 4th of July weekend, packed with fun, friends and family. The “hangxiety” afterward was real. Long weekends have always been tricky for me, often leaving me feeling unsatisfied. They tend to reveal that the common idea of just needing more time to act on our desires might be bullshit. Instead, the extra time is often filled with more of the same—in this case for me: loved ones, socializing, partying.

Right off the bat, there’s this societal theme of how much our social structures revolve around drinking and not just drinking, but binge drinking. I have lots of thoughts on this, but I’m going to leave this here for now. If you want a separate post on this topic or have thoughts to share, reach out. I’m curious to hear them.

That weekend, I remember googling why I was feeling so low and finally found something that brought me clarity: nihilism, the philosophy that nothing matters, sometimes causing depression in some people. In that moment, I thought to myself, holy shit, I’ve always had the opposite of nihilism. Everything felt too important. I realized that no matter how I spent my time, I would feel empty afterward. If I were to focus on learning, my spirit cried out to be with loved ones. If I spent the entire weekend with friends, I would feel weary of not spending as much time with my parents before they pass. If I spent weeks with my family, I might feel guilty for not making time for friendships or passions. Because everything felt precious, I couldn’t beat time. And this debilitation, caused by the pressure to choose correctly in this one finite life, worsened what I call the “existential emptiness that I’ve always felt.” It’s true, even as a child, I was already feeling the gravity of existence.

I hint at an inner knowing or intuition, this hunch that I was meant to share my perspective. And then, I wonder if the guilt I was feeling was less about drinking and more about not “doing what I’m supposed to do.” For several years, I was experiencing creative paralysis. Maybe the emptiness I described that day was actually from shoving down my inner knowing and not acting on it. Instead, over-socializing and over-extending myself were ways to numb the emptiness. Although I didn’t know how to make the emptiness go away, I express having an inkling that one way to feel better is to scream about it with others, “Can we talk about the fact that I feel empty and we only get one life?”

There’s also a theme of time tracking. My friend once told me he got through grad school by keeping track of every minute of his day for two months. First, he had to know where all his time went. I felt relieved to not be the only one who does this. Though the guilt and shame are heavy in this entry, switching from seeing time as a jumbled concept to a more concrete reality has been helpful for me, relieving the existentialism, anxiety and ADD. It was easy to live in my imagination of how I spent my time but tracking forced me to face the truth. I realized my ‘yes’ to that shot with the birthday girl would cost me hours of being hungover the next day, on top of the four hours I happily spent celebrating the night before. This is the theme of compounding habits, where a supportive habit leads to more supportive behaviors and unsupportive habits have the same waterfall effect. In this example, I write that being hungover leads to me not wanting to do anything the next day, especially create.

One theme that could be easy to miss is perfectionism leading to not even starting. Though I’m clearly aching to act on my hunch, I’m harsh on myself for an essay taking me “weeks,” noting “It ain’t cool." What creative idea would want to be born into such a judgmental environment where not writing makes me feel ashamed and yet writing too slow is also unacceptable? I disagree with that now. If each essay I write takes me four weeks, that’s 13 essays a year. If it takes 8 weeks, that’s six essays. That’s great and I’ll take it. Hell, if I wrote one essay a year, by year 10, I’d have an essay collection. Again, that’s great and I’ll take it.

Interestingly enough, on this nursing-my-hangover day, I didn’t do anything grand, but I was determined to crawl my way to slow change. For a while, I had an idea where these little voices spoke to me reminding me how humans seek validation and connection. When I observed someone being hesitant about their beauty, I would hear them say “This is how I look, is it good!?” Or when someone would feel shy about posting their jewelry that they make, I would hear them say, “This is what I make, is it good?!” That day, I forced myself to finally bring it into the world by painting watercolor blobs and giving them a voice. It was the first “art” I had made since I was a child, and the second time ever sharing anything publicly. It felt silly at the time— I don’t know how to draw people and these were little flash cards— yet it was also completely necessary. They hung on my walls until I moved out of that apartment three years later.

Questions I thought about:

• What am I trying to avoid right now versus then?

• What is a small habit I’m doing that’s leading to compounding debt?

• If my emptiness could talk, what would it say?

What I’m Reading

"Surviving A Lo Bori,” a Spanish-language memoir by Rafael Pabón Ortega, a Puerto Rican writer who grew up with hippie parents in PR before moving to NYC. When I showed the book to my dad, he said, “You’re probably grasping 50% of the words, aren’t you?” The vocabulary is intricate. I feel like a kid again, using context clues. If I stopped to look up every word, I would finish in 2 years. I’m enjoying it because Ortega is sarcastic and raunchy. He represents the complexity of the Puerto Rican people, and I like how he writes about his truth and human nature honestly and unapologetically.

My Creative World

The first project I owned from start to finish on Google Earth was making the UI bottom sheet more functional (the piece we drag up and down), recently made available to all users. This project helped bring it up to par with other apps, like Google Maps. learned about rolling out a feature in steps to mitigate risk and test it out first. There were definitely some unexpected bugs along the way, and I learned more about Flutter, our programming framework that automatically builds for iOS and Android. It was also a mini lesson on how to programmatically respond to “messages” from our fingers, like touching or dragging something on a phone.

I’m a bit late to 2026. I don’t know what it was about December but I began this year lingering, the last one to leave 2025. “Just one more drink,” I murmured, before time kicked me out. I can’t tell you why. Maybe I was tired. I know I was dysregulated. After sleeping 10 hours each night this weekend, drinking tea and barely leaving my apartment except for a dance class, me and my nervous system are finally ready to take on another year. One thing that helps me put time periods behind me? Rest and reflection.

I needed to take a breath, look at the beauty and ugliness I co-created with the universe and take it all in, before I felt ready to say goodbye.

2025 was a year of tending to myself, like a lion rawly licking its wounds after a fight. My fight was academia and corporate America. I had just finished the rat race of going back to school for 3.5 years and studying for the software engineering interviews for six months after that, all while working full-time at an intense job at Google. If you’re wondering how much the time left over was after sleeping, working, studying and bodily needs, the answer is zero. When it was all over, I was like Kimmy Schmidt, leaving my underground bunker for the first time, finally seeing the world. Everything seemed brand new. I could go on dates and not limit them to a strict ending time. I could fall asleep reading a book I picked up just for fun. Speaking of fun, what was that? I had to redefine what fun meant to me. I didn’t even realize until November that I could speak on the phone with people again, just to catch up.

I was a trust fund baby inheriting more time than I knew what to do with.

The one thing I knew was that I wanted to play and I wanted to make. I even wanted to waste time, like when I spent an entire Sunday paper-macheing, only to throw out the ugly items I made a week later.

So that’s what I did. I prioritized my creative life, finally stripped of the excuse that I didn’t have enough time. These are the creative moments that defined my 2025. I hope they serve as a prompt or mirror for your own reflection.

Fair warning: this piece is link-heavy in case these resources are useful to your creative process.

I took classes for no reason.

I took two weeks off before beginning a new role and this is something I highly recommend. Looking back, I should have taken a month. I went to a wheel-throwing class and made a wobbly avant-garde something. I went to a hand-lettering class at the Brooklyn Brainery and surprisingly found delight in drawing letters. I haven’t looked at fonts the same again. I wanted to play without a purpose.

National Poetry Month and taking my people with me.

National Poetry Month happens every April and writers challenge themselves by writing a poem every day. Last year, the beginning of spring was marked by the poems I wrote and the poems I received from my parents, my partner and a couple of friends I asked to participate with me. Everything became poetic, even the blossoms on the tree outside my apartment building. It was fun and sweet. I learned a lot about my loved ones, whom I tend to think I already know. I also worked out some feelings.

I switched into software engineering.

I began a whole new career in software engineering. To commemorate the change and change up the usual societal celebrations like birthdays and weddings, I threw myself a New Career party at a dance studio. We celebrated transformation, by getting uncomfortable, learning salsa and listening to poetry by writers/poets, Mela and Sue Ariza. Starting a new career at 30-years-old and being the person in the room who is the least knowledgeable and least capable was a huge hit to my ego. The change was also wonderful step for my creativity.

I built the magic myself.

I’ve always been software curious. Making things with software seemed like magic and I was itching to get underneath the hood. Hell, just to even understand the hood. This year, I finally became a part of that magic. C++ and Dart/Flutter were my brushes and Google Earth’s codebase was my canvas. I added new features and functionality to our capabilities and I learned A LOT. So much that an entire post can be dedicated to this topic of one’s first year in software engineering, if any software nerds are interested.

I received 9 rejections from submitting my writing (finally).

For years, I read those aggregated lists of places where writers can submit their work and muttered, “soon.” Last year I decided to stop messing around. I decided if I was going to submit my writing, I needed some structure to my writing submissions. I pulled old writing pieces from my lair and edited them. I used a spreadsheet to keep track of the journals, their deadlines, submission progress and more. I often submitted at 11:57pm because I love the drama. The rejections rolled in, each one a reminder that I’m finally doing the damn thing. I even got some acceptances. For each submission, I learned something, including how to tell my story because each requires a bio.

If you want a copy of my submissions spreadsheet, let me know in a comment!

I birthed brain babies.

Though I love my cute ADD brain, it gets in the way of me executing my ideas. And because of this same adorable brain, I have a lot of them. It’s torturous. Last year, I crawled my way to some finished ideas. I sketched and designed. Yet I also came to a haunting realization: there can always be a better version and a better draft. What helps me with this thought, is a concept we use in product design, getting to the MVP, the minimum viable product. Then, I can iterate on it if I want to.

I finished art pieces and submitted them.

You get the gist. I experienced the opposite of women in pornography and actually finished. As part of my exploration of mediums, I finished an art piece called “Beyond Dreaming” that has over 400 hand embroidered stitches on a collage on canvas (my poor fingers). I submitted the piece to journals and an art gallery.

I used writing to have conversations.

“To Get to the Mango Tree” was one of my greatest gifts from the year. I explored different topics, from family, to the anxiety about relationships, to the walls we call our homes, to how I think resilience is stupid. Whether it was you sharing your own experiences or sharing that the words I put together resonated with you, hearing from you all through texts, emails and DMs meant the world.

But you want to know the best part? I think my dedication to my writing has made others feel more comfortable sharing their creations with me. My friend sent me his first blog post before he shyly published it to his website. My dad wrote his first creative essay (maybe ever) and gifted it to me for Christmas. Another friend said she felt inspired to share her collage with her readers.

I got my first paid subscriber!

Okay, so what if it was my dad? I didn’t even know he knew how to use Substack. In the most dad-like fashion, he didn’t say a word. It was the sweetest act of support and it really riled up Substack because dads are a sensitive topic. I felt so seen by someone whom I admire and adore. Since then, I got my second paid subscriber, and then my third, each one humbling. Now I’m waiting for my partner to get the hint damn it.

I trained 176 hours on a dance team.

I train on a salsa team in NYC. We also learn Afro-Cuban and Latin hustle. In these rehearsals, I confronted my ego, the part of me that is afraid of being a bad dancer. I connected to my ancestry as we learned about the Orishas of Afro-Cuban. I also learned to care for my body more than I ever have (did you know you’re supposed to use heat on injury before you work out and ice after you work out? I didn’t!). For five hours a week, I don’t stare at a screen. I move and I process. Sometimes I leave rehearsal with new writing ideas and often I leave unblocked. Don’t ask me how this happens but it does.

I fell in love again… with movement as storytelling

I get so stuck on trying to be a “good” dancer that sometimes I forget what it’s all about: to move, to express. Taking a mini class with Caitlyn Casson, a movement and mindset specialist, where we played around with expressing different emotions through movement helped me remember how movement is another way to tell a story. I also randomly stumbled upon a contemporary jazz class at Broadway Dance Center (because I was too late for the class I had actually signed up for) and I loved how expressive Stacie Webster’s choreography was. I even started making my own mini choreographies again; I haven’t done that since high school.

I explored new mediums.

Most of my exploration begins with a question. Do people still paper mache? What if I dried these flowers my partner gave me and used them as a medium? Can I turn this mini poem into digital art?

As someone who often needs an explanation in different ways, it makes sense that this is the way I self-express. It’s my inner artist child toddling over to you, “Here are words.” And as you read that, she goes to get another toy. “And in case you still don’t understand that, here’s a picture.”

I took creative risks.

I shared my neurotic-ass diary publicly and analyzed it in my “Read My Diary” segment. I invited my friend to share hers. I checked out new creative spaces, like new dance studios, some of which weren’t in line with my values at all. I tried new narrators, writing a whole piece in the second person. I played around with new metaphors. In general, my newsletter has been a safe, low stakes place to take these risks and test them out.

I finally accepted this part of me.

I reckoned with the part of me that doesn’t want to be just one thing, the part that honestly, can’t be. I stopped being a shadow artist shoving my desires down. I stopped listening to the excuses: too late, too old, no formal training, no degree, not immediately amazing, not enough time, not enough executive functioning.

I stopped just having ideas and started having the audacity to finish them and share them—rejections, judgment, and all. I stopped feeling guilty for not fitting into a box, finally accepting that my interests aren’t separate or disconnected, they’re all layers of a single, creative spirit. Rather than it being a source of insecurity that I’m spreading myself too thin, I now see it as a source of strength where each passion I pursue enhances the other. Software, writing, and art are just different languages for the same soul.

I’m finally accepting that I’m a storyteller in more ways than one.

Join me every other week as I step away from my original work. We’ll get honest and raw by analyzing an unedited1, and often cringe, journal entry. I’ll share what I’m reading and tell you what’s new from my creative world.

Don’t Read My Diary

I wrote this when I was reflecting on the dichotomy between the things I desire, and how I was moving. I consciously desired a serious partnership —at the time, a “boyfriend” — and for years, I wished to execute my creative ideas. Yet I was frustrated by my ability to act on either. Instead, my time was filled by lots of other things that didn’t bring me closer to what I wanted. I finally reflect: Is there a chance my love life and creative life could be fueled by the same source?

Mid-December 2022, Tuesday evening, Brooklyn

Welp. I feel... empty, sad, a bit discouraged, scared, overwhelmed. I feel filled w/many ideas, yet fatigued. and I feel depri. Is it my period? Is it my ADD?

Ofc I miss and want to talk to Julio. But I’ll need to keep reminding myself that love isn’t supposed to be so hard. Love is supposed to be easy. At least that’s what they say. Just like I fought for Nolan to make me feel loved, when I should have walked away. I need to be strong. Julio [the current one] doesn’t feel the same way. And that’s ok.

But I do need to sit in my feelings. my body is telling me to rest. My soul is craving love and cuddles. I want to be home cuddling w/my mom. I want nature. To hang out w/trees and be still w/them. To be in community, to believe in myself, to turn what I already write into writing.

Has anyone else mastered their mind? Is my add getting worse? what does my subconscious think? about me? about love? does it think I can have it? I want a man who cherishes me, who wants to build memories w/me. For me to meet an emotionally available man, I need to be emotionally available for myself. Am I? Look at me now. I feel sad and I wanna move past it. In some ways, it’s bc I feel like an idiot. Falling for another man who isn’t able to give me the love I want.

What kind of love do I want? I want words that capture who I am, I want someone who takes pics and videos of me bc he can’t help but want to capture my essence. I want someone who surprises me, with lil gifts and memories, who thinks I’m beautiful always. who makes me feel grounded.

I want someone who supports me, who buys me journals, who dances w/me, who asks me how I’m feeling constantly, and encourages me to journal when he can tell I need a bit more support. I want laughter! A lot of giggles and joy. who puts me up not down.

The truth is I’m scared of how slowly I’m progressing in my creative life, and my romantic love life, if at all. are they somehow related? and how?

Being blocked by love:

• fearful energy says I’m scared

• unfocused energy shadow subconscious thoughts that I’m unloveable

• choosing men who can’t meet my emotional needs

• afraid of emotional intimacy

• wanting love but being afraid of losing freedom

Blocked creativity

• unfocused energy

• sporadic downloads or wins

I don’t know. God will tell me when I’m on to something. If I don’t have a bf by this time next year, I need professional help. and in fact, I don’t want it to get to that point. I should likely seek help earlier. But a lot of this feels related to energy.

[Diagram]
Fearful energy
Anxious energy → frantic → always moving → overthinking
Unfocused energy → Focus requires you to be in your body, to be in flow, to be present.
[End of Diagram]

The kind of love I want calms my nervous system and feeds my soul, my spirit, my creative. I need to not forget that as a child, I was so creative. so many poems and writings and ideas. But no execution, sharing or encouragement from anyone. Mainly bc they didn’t know any better. I was also so anxious. I was afraid of not being liked, being unloveable, afraid of instability, afraid of uncertainty, hell, even my feelings around love were scary. Bc love meant loss. How was I supposed to love if I associated love w/fear? with loss?

As we can see, the theory was that both my creative life and romantic life are fueled by my emotional world.

The part that made me laugh. The energy diagram I drew following how my energy impacts my focus. It shows my need to process spatially (using distance, direction and hierarchy rather than just linear sentences). One thing I’ve learned from software engineering is that sometimes it’s easier to process on a white board.

One universal theme is the theme of self-awareness, our ability to be our own detectives and uncover patterns through honest reflection. The ability to reflect implies an improvement of emotional maturity, like admitting I myself am emotionally unavailable. I used to think emotionally unavailable meant not wanting a romantic relationship because it’s often used in that context and I humorously scoffed that my ex’s lack of emotional availability was one of the major reasons why we broke up. I also fell into the narrative that dating in NYC sucks because of all the emotional unavailable men out there. My biggest aha moment for me was when I heard this definition of emotional availability: being open and available to all emotions, in others and especially in ourselves. I allude to not being emotionally available when I note I immediately want to be finished with being sad and I guess that I need to “sit in my feelings.”

There are some elements of anxious attachment pattern where fighting for love and choosing ‘hard’ love was my algorithm: if (love == hard) { stay and fight }. I finally start connecting this to my childhood where after I felt love, I would immediately feel fear of losing the ones I love.

There are a lot of themes around our nervous system. I write traits of being consistently hyper aroused (“frantic, anxious, fearful”), indicating a state of fight or flight. And it makes sense, how can I work on that creative essay when my brain is scanning for threats (Why didn’t Julio text me back? What does his Instagram story mean, why did my boss make that face)? If my body is in hyper arousal, survival is high priority, expression is a luxury. In other words, I mention my ADD and my “unfocused energy” and wanting to “master my mind,” but that’s not exactly true. I was actually super focused, only it was on trying to survive. There’s no way in hell my brain was going to let me use resources for my creative life.

It’s interesting to see a deep intuition about what I might need to help my nervous system. I write about craving stillness, wanting trees and cuddles and to “be still.” These can be a source of nervous system regulation. What a fascinating contrast between what I’m desiring to do (write, create) and what my body aches (stillness aka, to do nothing). My intuition was telling me that the way to get stuff done is to actually slow down, something I still struggle to believe today.

The cringiest moment, and I define cringe as what do I feel most embarrassed to share, is giving myself a deadline before seeking professional help. I do love this line though, for showing the shift in agency, where I’m refusing to be stuck in an infinite loop. It’s like a timeout function in software where if a job takes too long, you stop the job. I was admitting that my operating system might not be able to fix itself and if so, that’s ok.

Lastly, I mention wanting someone who will take “pics/videos” to “capture my essence.” Though this is a minor note in a long list of attributes, it’s interesting in contrast to the child who had no creative encouragement from anyone. I’m desiring to be witnessed, for some to mirror me.

I said I was looking for a boyfriend, but it’s clearly deeper than that. I was looking for a stable environment, one where my body is at peace, where art and love can grow from. My intuition was right. To finally execute, I first had to slow down and regulate the system that fuels it all.

Questions I asked myself:

• What does being emotionally available look like in my daily life?

• How has my childhood definition of love affected the way I show up in my creative world today?

• Is your creative block actually a relational block? Where is my energy going to?

• Does this relationship calm or accelerate my nervous system?

• How do I know when a situation is no longer serving my nervous system (i.e. when do I time out)?

What I’m Reading

"Surviving A Lo Bori," a memoir by Rafael Pabon Ortega, about his life in Puerto Rico and being an exile in New York. The memoir is entirely in Spanish and incredible for increasing vocabulary and seeing different ways to play with language. Ortega is a true poet. He describes his old teacher as “vestida de huesos“ (dressed in bones), rather than just thin, and his friend’s eyes as “desorbitado” (unorbited). He’s helping me find the joy in word play! And, he’s simply hilarious. The only downside is that I’m probably grasping ~70% of the vocabulary, but it’s cool.

My Creative World

Feeling energized about being a a part of Acentos Review’s November issue. First, my art piece: the famous muñeca sin rostro (dolls without faces) made with dried flowers and acrylic.

Also, an essay dear to my heart about my grandma, Mamá Hilda, and the lessons she taught me about letting herself be loved. Interestingly, when I reread it after publication, it was exactly what I needed to hear. It goes to show that often when we write, we are the ones who need the takeaway most.