It started with my grandma yelling for me to answer the phone.

This wasn’t unusual. She had a way of yelling, not because she was mad, but because she firmly believed every phone call was urgent. Could be a Jehovah’s Witness. Could be the president. You treat every ring with the same energy.

So, I obeyed. I picked up the phone in the middle of our Miami kitchen, where the smell of arroz con pollo wafted through the air, and my little sister was doing a questionable cover of a Shakira song.

“Hello?” I said, still expecting this to be one of my grandpa’s amigos calling to debate dominoes strategies.

Instead, it was a voice I didn’t recognize. A clipped, formal tone that somehow still managed to sound warm. What came next was a mixture of words that didn’t fully land until I was already halfway through them.

“You’ve been selected for the creative writing residency.”

I froze. My abuela shouted from the stove, “¿Quién es?” Who is it? But I couldn’t answer her. My brain needed a minute to catch up.

Let me rewind a little—because context is everything, just like it is in dating. And this wasn’t the first life-altering conversation I’d had, but it was the one that truly shifted everything.

When "Safe" Isn't Safe Anymore

At the time, I’d been living what some might call a perfectly respectable life, which really means I was trying very hard not to disappoint my family. I had a stable job as a journalist covering immigration issues for a local outlet. My parents, who had come to this country with little more than hope and hustle, were thrilled about this career that offered both meaning and a paycheck with benefits.

By all accounts, I was doing fine. But fine is a bit like dating someone just because they ordered dessert that one time—eventually, the novelty wears thin, right? Beneath the steady bylines and carefully pressed button-ups, I felt restless.

I loved stories, yes. But I wanted to write the kind of pieces that existed not because they’d fit into a Wednesday news cycle but because they’d live in someone’s head for years. Stories about home and heritage and what it meant to feel like two people in one body, one waving an American flag, the other holding onto the rhythms of salsa. I wanted to lean into all that messy, personal stuff I’d been avoiding because it felt indulgent or, worse, risky.

It’s like your heart knowing a relationship isn’t The One, but you stay because it’s comfortable. That’s what I’d been doing with my entire life. Until, on a whim—fueled by late-night café Cubano and maybe too much Bad Bunny—I applied to a writing residency in Chicago.

The Art of Showing Up

I almost didn’t answer that call—it was a Thursday, which meant we had family dinner later, and I hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to explain what this residency thing even was. Because let’s be honest, explaining something like creative writing to Cuban parents is sort of like explaining why people ghost in dating: confusing, frustrating, and often fruitless.

But that phone call was the start of me showing up for myself—a decision that was terrifying but necessary. Showing up doesn’t always mean you know what you’re doing or that you have a grand master plan. Sometimes it means taking a risk when the easy thing would be to stay exactly where you are.

I said yes on the phone before they even finished describing the residency. Yes, I would move to Chicago. Yes, I’d leave a job my family thought was solid. Yes, I’d leave Miami, where it was always warm and I could find Cuban bread at literally any grocery store, for a city where snow fell like judgment.

Awkward, Cold, and Completely Worth It

That first Chicago winter was the shock of my life. When I tell you that no amount of layering could prepare a Miami boy for the bone-deep betrayal of Midwestern wind, I mean it. I walked as if every gust was a personal attack. Stranger looks included.

But it wasn’t just the cold—I had moments of doubt almost daily. My abuela called every other week to ask, “¿Cuándo regresas?” (When are you coming back?). My heart ached for simple comforts: pastelitos, my nieces yelling during family Monopoly, the familiar swing of Spanglish in every conversation around me.

Yet, something else started to happen, too. I began writing stories that had been bottled up in me for years. Stories that explored the quiet beauty in big families arguing who made the best picadillo. Stories about being caught between cultures, belonging fully to neither but feeling the pain and power of both.

And, more importantly, I started to meet people who didn’t just “get it”—they lived it. Writers who had their own complicated stories, their own versions of abuela yelling at them to answer the phone. People who reminded me that while love and connection sometimes start at “home,” they don’t have to end there. You can carry them with you, adapt them, and build something new.

Lessons From the Call That Changed It All

Looking back, accepting that phone call feels like saying yes to a first date when every bone in your body says, “Eh, I’m fine staying in with Netflix tonight.” It didn’t seem like such a big deal in the moment—it was just a "yes," three little letters—but it carried me into places I’d never imagined.

Here’s what I learned along the way:

1. Safe Isn’t Always Sustainable

I could’ve kept playing it safe, staying in Miami with a stable job and my mom’s flan within reach. But comfort zones are only comfortable until they start feeling like cages.

2. Take the Call, Even If You’re Not Ready

You don’t have to have it all figured out before you commit to something new. Saying yes isn’t the same as having a five-year PERT chart laid out. Sometimes, you just need to start.

3. Everyone’s Story Is a Work in Progress

Whether it’s a career, a relationship, or something in between, recognize that there’s an evolution to everything good in life. First drafts are rarely perfect—but they’re necessary.

4. Your People Will Love You Through It

When I told my family, their reactions fell somewhere between shock and horror. But they got over it. And eventually, my abuela bragged about her nieto the “famous writer” to her church friends. The people who matter will come along for the ride, even if it takes them a bit to catch up.

Closing Thoughts: Your Next Big “Yes”

The truth is, life-changing phone calls don’t always start with grand announcements. Sometimes, they’re small shifts that redirect everything. Mine led to a career I love, a suitcase full of new stories, and the confidence to embrace what’s messy and meaningful in life.

So, pick up that metaphorical phone—or the literal one—whenever it rings. Say yes when it feels even a little bit like it matters. You never know how far it’ll take you.

And if that “yes” leads you to Chicago winters, well, my advice is this: invest in a good coat. Or five.