Growing up, my family had a saying: “If he can’t handle your family, he’s not the one.” It was usually delivered as a half-joke, my tias wagging fingers at me as I slouched at the dinner table, the scent of arroz con pollo wafting through the house. And their reasoning? Any man who balked at the glorious chaos of our Cuban-Mexican clan “no merece ni un poquito de tu tiempo.” (Translation: He’s not worth even a little of your time.)

To a kid raised in a home where Thanksgiving dinners came with assigned dance-offs and spontaneous sing-alongs to Juan Gabriel, this wisdom made perfect sense. Love, to us, wasn’t whispered sweet nothings—it was loud, larger-than-life, and definitely involved someone roasting you over tortilla technique. If a man couldn’t vibe with that, what chance would he have surviving Sunday lunch?

It wasn’t until years later that I realized my family’s "sage wisdom" had unintentionally set me up to see relationships the same way I saw rococo quinceañera dresses—over-the-top and maybe a little impractical.

The Family Myth Takes Center Stage

In my early twenties, I brought my then-boyfriend Gabriel (yes, named for the “Querida” legend) to meet my family at a backyard BBQ fiesta. Fresh off watching several rom-coms where meet-the-family moments spark adorably messy hijinks, I expected a cinematic blend of awkward charm: Gabriel stumbling over Spanish phrases while my abuela cackled in the corner. What actually happened? Gabriel froze like a vinyl record scratched mid-salsa beat.

Now, in hindsight, I get it. Not everyone knows what to do when your cousin busts out a conga line or your dad grills the guy on his Top 5 Houston BBQ spots. But in my mind, Gabriel's inability to join the fun wasn’t just a misstep—it was a red flag. My tias raised eyebrows. My mom leaned over to whisper, “Hmmm, él no canta con nosotros?” I froze when he politely declined a pastelito. In my family’s eyes, passivity around pastries might as well be a breakup-worthy offense.

And so, we didn’t last. Gabriel went on to marry a Pilates instructor—someone more brunch-and-yoga than brisket-and-cha-cha—and I told myself it was because he couldn’t “handle my family.” Myth confirmed (or so I thought).

The Moment the Myth Cracked

Fast-forward a few years and a handful of misadventures (and secondhand bar advice), and I was dating Arturo. Like me, he was Houston-born, with Mexican roots, but unlike me, he wasn’t raised with the same boisterous, leave-no-plátano-left-behind style. Arturo was quieter, an observer rather than a main stage performer at parties. He brought thoughtful questions to debates over the best tamales in town, laughed softly but didn’t jump up to belt out Celia Cruz—and he ordered water with lime when dinner called for Jack and Coke.

Cue my family’s less-than-subtle murmurs. My siblings nudged me, my mom’s disapproving frown floated over every Sunday carnitas feast, and my tias whispered judgment like a chorus of telenovela narrators: “¿Así de tímido es Arturo?” (Is Arturo THAT shy?!) I found myself defending him to the same people who raised me to believe that approval didn’t just matter—it was essential. “Why doesn’t Arturo loosen up more?” my mom once asked, and for a moment I didn’t have an answer.

Then one late night, after most of the family had gone home and the candles from my cousin’s birthday cake had long melted into a puddle of wax, Arturo was the one who stayed behind to help abuela pack up leftover tostadas. As we walked out to the car, he handed me a neatly wrapped plate, whispered, “This is for your grandma tomorrow,” and smiled. The kindness of that moment hit me harder than any fireworks display on the Fourth of July.

Suddenly, I realized the truth: The myth I’d been raised believing wasn’t just unfair—it was incomplete. Love doesn’t come in one boisterous, glitter-sprinkled flavor. It’s not an all-access pass to every family tradition, nor does it require mastering Celia Cruz lyrics by heart. Instead, it’s in the back seat gestures, the quiet respect for where you come from, and—most importantly—the willingness to show up, day after day.

Why This Myth is Unhelpful (and What We Should Believe Instead)

If my family’s myth taught me anything, it’s that blanket statements about love can be as cliché as “love songs on rainy days” Spotify playlists. Here’s the reality:

  1. Not Everyone Expresses Affection Similarly. Your partner may never turn your tia's living room into a karaoke stage, but that doesn’t mean they’re not madly in love with you.

  2. Patience > Performances. Real connection takes time. It doesn’t happen on the first BBQ, or maybe even the third. Let relationships unfold naturally instead of expecting instant blockbuster chemistry.

  3. Skip the "Test."
    Introducing someone to your family shouldn’t feel like a high-stakes quiz. Instead of measuring how well they “perform,” pay attention to how they make you feel when the noise fades—when you’re in a quieter, less chaotic space together.

  4. Only You Get to Decide: “Is This My Person?” At the end of the day, no relative, no matter how wise or witty, has the authority to decide who your soulmate is. Let your family be the sauce that enriches your life and relationship—not the seasoning packet that dictates all the flavors.

Finding the Balance

It’s easy to romanticize your family's approval as the Holy Grail of relationship success, especially if you were raised in a culture where gatherings can stretch for eight hours and gossiping is practically an Olympic sport. But relationships, I’ve learned, are about finding a middle ground between who you are, where you came from, and who you want to be with.

Arturo and I didn’t last forever, but that wasn’t because he didn’t pass the Family Test. (Spoiler: It doesn’t exist, folks.) We ended things because life pulled us in different directions, but I’ll never forget what he taught me. He proved that love could be quieter and still deeply intentional, like handing your abuela extra empanadas and making sure you lock up her gate on the way out.

Closing Thoughts

To this day, my family’s myth still creeps up during big occasions. “Oh, you’d better make sure he knows how to dance, Ileana!” my tias tease, but now I know better than to buy into it wholesale. Some love stories might fit the script your family writes, but the ones worth keeping turn off the projector and make their own rhythm—whether it includes salsa steps or not.

If love should be anything, it’s this: a connection that feels authentic to you, one pastelito at a time.