Why I Write (and Keep Writing)

I can’t remember the moment I fell in love with writing, kind of like how some relationships creep up on you. One minute you’re idly scribbling journal entries as a preteen (loading them with melodrama about school crushes or how your best friend Stacy borrowed your glitter gel pen without asking), and the next, you're smitten—tangled up in storytelling like it’s your lifelong partner. Writing has this magic of sneaking into your life, getting under your skin, and refusing to let go.

For me, the "relationship" started in my family’s kitchen in Houston's East End, where the air always carried the smell of café Cubano and my abuela's favorite bolero playlist on repeat. Growing up Cuban-Mexican in a household brimming with overlapping voices and chaotic energy, I learned early that every story deserved to be heard. And none—absolutely none—were ever told without flair or exaggeration. A simple family gathering could spiral into operatic tales of triumph ("and THEN the tamal pot survived Hurricane Alicia!") or minor scandal ("did you hear what Tía Yoli said to the vecinos?!"). Somewhere along the way, I realized: stories were everything. They're how we connect, celebrate, survive, and heal.

Writing became my way of bottling that energy, of taking the raw stuff of life—messy and colorful as a Frida Kahlo painting—and shaping it into something that made sense. But it was only later that I understood something even deeper about why I write.

Storytelling as Survival

Let’s be real: life will throw some wild plot twists at you. Kind of like when you think you’ve nailed the first date, only to realize mid-goodbye hug that you’ve had spinach in your teeth the entire time. Mortifying, right? That’s life’s sense of humor. Writing, though? Writing gives you the opportunity to reclaim the narrative.

When I was in college, far from home during a semester abroad in Madrid, I felt incredibly lost. Not just because I spent one too many nights trying (failing) to memorize metro stops after sangria-fueled dinners. But because, for the first time, I was out of my cocoon. No family gossip in the kitchen. No East End familiarity. Just me and my thoughts—and those thoughts weren’t exactly friendly.

So, I turned to my journal. I wrote about everything: the cobblestone streets, the flamenco music that seemed raw with emotion, the old man at my favorite café who nodded at me every morning like we were lifelong friends. Writing became a survival tool, a way to pinpoint all the beauty in an overwhelming moment.

And then, it became more. Writing let me figure out where I fit in the story of my dual heritage and how I could use it to connect to other people. It's one thing to feel like two cultures live inside you—it's another to give both of those cultures names and a voice. I keep writing because it helps me make sense of both, like I’m smooth-talking my way through a very complicated emotional first date.

Writing as Connection

You know how some people can walk into a party (or, fine, a group chat) and instantly create a vibe that makes everyone feel seen? Writing does that for me. It’s like hosting the liveliest get-together without anyone needing to bring a cheese plate (though, to be fair, I’d never say no to one).

After I started writing stories about growing up Latina in Houston, I was floored by the responses. The messages slid into my inbox like: “My abuela used to make homemade buñuelos too!” or “Your dad calling the belt ‘La Justicia’ took me ALL the way back to my childhood WHOA.” Suddenly, writing became more than just my personal therapy session. It became a bridge.

Here’s the thing: humans are hardwired for connection, whether you're swiping right or bantering with someone cute at the coffee shop. Stories are the ultimate pick-up line; the ultimate “Hey, me too!” They’re how we say, “I see you, I get you.” That click—that gut-deep recognition—is why I keep writing.

Finding Humor in the Mess

Some stories, admittedly, are harder to tell. When I’ve fumbled, failed, or walked straight into the cringe zones of life, the last thing I want to do is put it into words. You know, like the time I tried to impress someone by pronouncing “charcuterie” in the middle of a date and ended up saying… something unprintable. (Look, Spanish and French deserve mutual respect, but my Texas accent wasn’t helping.)

But here’s the wild part: those moments? They’re often gold. Writing reminds me that even life’s most awkward, gut-wrenching moments can wear a comedic twist. Sometimes all you need is a beat—or, let’s be honest, a third margarita—and suddenly, you’re laughing at yourself in a way that feels... freeing.

Storytelling has taught me to lean into the chaos, to shape it into something meaningful, or at the very least something entertaining. Those missteps—the wrong turns, the heartbreaks, the times you tried to “fix” a problem with duct tape instead of communicating your actual feelings—become chapters worth sharing. Writing spins them into something valuable.

The Joy in Rewriting

One thing I’ve learned is that storytelling isn’t one-and-done—it’s alive. It grows, changes, and evolves the way relationships do. I’ll look back at something I wrote in high school (probably about a crush I wrote love poems for—I know, gross), and I’ll cringe at the overuse of metaphors but smile at how hopelessly sincere it was. Then, I’ll rewrite it. Give it some new life, better framing, and fewer proclamations involving the moon.

In the same way, writing teaches us forgiveness. You can rewrite the narrative for others—for an ex you couldn’t imagine forgiving or for yourself on a day when you weren’t your best. Life is iterative. Writing just gives us a chance to realize that with every new draft.

Why I’ll Keep Writing

Writing, to me, feels like falling in love over and over—with the world, with people, and yes, even with myself. Some days it unfolds like a fairytale date, where the words just flow and the spark is undeniable. Other days, it’s more like a long-term relationship—you have to work for it, through doubt, monotony, and distractions (hello, TikTok rabbit holes).

But the magic is always there. Writing helps me turn life into something meaningful, whether through a funny anecdote about the chaos of abuela’s kitchen or a bittersweet exploration of grief.

So, why do I keep writing? Because it’s how I make sense of all the seasons of life: the flirt, the crush, the complicated mess, and the deep familiarity. It’s where chaos finds clarity, where pain finds purpose, and where love—whether for family, community, or self—finds a voice.

And that? That’s a story worth telling, today and always.