Is it Possible to Love Your Hispanic Heritage?

Disclosure: Although this blog post is sponsored by Love Yourself Store, all opinions come from the bottom of my blogging heart. Si lees español puedes leer esta entrada aquí.

When I was a little girl, the greater part of my Sundays were spent in a laundromat. It was my weekly torture session. Not only because of the fact that I wouldn’t be buying anything from the vending machines, despite having a pocket full of quarters, nor because of the heat radiating from the dryers, not even because I knew I’d be wasting a minimum of three hours of my life that I’d never get back. In reality, I think what bothered me the most was what the entire scene represented. It was emblematic of being an immigrant in the United States, being weird, being different. I was so afraid a classmate might see me through the windows and recognize me. I don’t even know why identifying myself generated such fear, but at that young age, I didn’t think it was possible to ever love my Hispanic heritage. At that time, the only thing I wanted was the unattainable… more than citizenship, I wanted acceptance.

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How to Forgive Yourself From The Heart

What is the first mistake you ever made?

For this blog post I tried to think of the earliest memory I have of making a mistake. It was nearly impossible and not because I never made mistakes. Being the runt of my siblings made me not only the most annoying of the three, but also the most likely to piss my brother off. Still, today I couldn’t remember the bloopers of my childhood, those mistakes were just too minimal to register. Don’t you just wish you could go back in time to when the biggest mistake you ever made was recording over your sister’s favorite 90s mix-tape?

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The day I hit rock bottom was a weekday. I finally woke up after hitting the snooze button every ten minutes… consecutively… for an hour. I opened my eyes and thought to myself, “If I can manage to get ready in five minutes, I will only be fifteen minutes late for work”. But I could not get my legs and arms to move as quickly as my mind. Like anvils weighing me down, I couldn’t get my legs to move at all. In fact, I was nearly catatonic. That day, my husband showered me, dressed me, and drove me to work. I didn’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed about that. At work, I couldn’t explain that for weeks, I had suddenly began experiencing panic attacks in social situations. The way I couldn’t explain or my tardiness that day. Or, worse yet, I couldn’t explain that the reason I looked like I had been hit by a Mack truck was because I had been dressed by a boy. That was the day I resolved to seek medical attention. The diagnosis: stress.