When I tell you that writing this piece felt like dancing the salsa with two left feet, I mean it. It twisted me up inside, sent me stumbling to the fridge for late-night snacks, and left me questioning not just my career choices, but also that time in third grade when I cried because someone said I had a unibrow. Writing is like that sometimes—it sneaks up on you, bringing out all your insecurities, and this project in particular had me squarely out of my comfort zone.

There is wisdom in discomfort, though. If I’ve learned anything growing up in Miami—where the sun sometimes feels like it’s shouting directly into your soul—it’s that resilience is cultivated through persistence, and a little cafecito doesn’t hurt either.

Let me backtrack and explain why this was the hardest thing I’ve ever written. Hint: it wasn’t because of word count, confusing instructions, or even a dreaded deadline. Nope—it was hard because it forced me to confront myself in ways I hadn’t bargained for. It wasn’t just writing—it was therapy, self-reflection, and about 3 hours of “why am I like this?” panic spirals rolled into one.

When Authenticity Meets a World of Filters

I was tasked with writing about authenticity—not an easy subject in a world where we all digitally crop, filter, and edit to present what we want others to see. And look, I get it. Growing up, every important family event in my life was filtered through an abuela-approved lens of perfection. My grandmother would say “La familia siempre tiene que mostrarse bien” (The family must always present itself well), which meant hair combed, chin up, and nothing less than a smile that said, “We’re doing just fine, thank you.” A part of me internalized that—Caribbean pride, baby!—but another part whisper-cried, “But what if I’m not?”

Here’s the twist: the piece I struggled to write wasn’t about dating at all. It started with a simple request to write about home—what it means, how it shapes us, and why it’s not always where the heart is. You’d think writing about something as timeless and universal as the concept of “home” would come naturally for someone like me—a Cuban-American hybrid with one foot in Miami and the other perpetually chasing her identity somewhere between the melody of Celia Cruz and an overpriced cappuccino in Midtown Manhattan.

Turns out, digging into what “home” really means—beyond arroz con frijoles and “Guantanamera” playing at Christmas—was like peeling an onion. Oh, the tears.

Writing That Feels Like a Breakup Text

The process went something like this: At first, I stared at the blinking cursor with the same dread as someone opening a text that starts with “Hey, we need to talk.” Then came the doubt. How do I write about something that feels so messy and personal while still creating a story others will see themselves in?

The irony? I regularly preach the importance of authenticity. But there I was, a so-called advocate for “being yourself,” tightening my metaphors into neat little bows to keep the raw, messy truth from spilling onto the page. Here’s what I learned: writing from an authentic place is like stepping out with no makeup after a week of bad skin—not easy, not glamorous, but beautifully real in its vulnerability.

As I wrestled with this piece, I realized something else: writing about home meant writing about loss, love, and all the complicated changes in between. It meant accepting the parts of my upbringing that didn’t always feel Instagrammable—the occasional family fights, the sound of my dad calling me “mija” one minute and scolding me in rapid-fire Spanish the next. You see, home isn’t really about embracing perfection. It’s about letting yourself be seen with every scar and wrinkle intact.

What This Taught Me: The Case for Realness

This assignment showed me what I’d been missing in my own work, and by extension, in how I show up in my life. On social media, I craft captions like an overly attentive bridesmaid arranging the bride’s veil. But it turns out people want the candids, not just the posed shots—because truth resonates on a level perfection never could. It’s the same in relationships, too.

If you’re reading this and struggling to put yourself out there, maybe I can save you some of the time it’s taken me to figure this out. Here’s the secret sauce for writing—or living—with authenticity:

  • Embrace your quirks. For me, it was finally allowing some Miami flavor to creep into my prose. You’ll catch Spanglish here and there, or a salsa reference, because that’s just who I am. It’s also how I remind readers (and myself) that their quirks are more than valid—they’re what make us human.

  • Lose the pressure to “package” your story. Not everything needs to be tied up with a perfect bow. Some emotions, moments, and stories are better left raw and a little messy, and that’s okay. Traditional Latin music, for instance, isn’t polished by design; it’s passionate, imperfect, and alive with feeling. Take that approach to your own self-expression.

  • Let go of control. My abuela used to say something that I only recently learned to appreciate: “El agua busca su nivel” (Water finds its level). Authenticity works the same way—stop trying to force it, and it will naturally flow back to you.

Perspective is Everything

The hardest piece I’ve ever had to write wasn’t hard because the words wouldn’t come. It was hard because it made me grapple with what I was running from—a need to present myself in ways that didn’t quite fit anymore. What’s left, though, feels like relief. No more cringing at the parts of me that are “too much.” I’m reclaiming it all—the boldness and occasional too-loudness of growing up in Little Havana and the messiness of being a two-culture hybrid who sometimes forgets the word for “spatula” in either language.

So maybe home, love, and life all have this one thing in common: they’re complicated but worth showing up for. Writing reminded me of that. And now I hope I’ve reminded you too.

In the end, we’re all just stories waiting to be told. Make yours real, make it messy, and most importantly, make it your own.