If you ever want proof that being a writer is the ultimate “choose your own adventure” job, let me tell you about the day I got chased out of a cemetery at midnight. Not by ghosts—though I swear the heavy Miami air was thick with something supernatural—but by the increasingly impatient shouts of a night security guard who clearly hadn’t read up on the value of creative research.

The assignment? “Write about how Cuban-American traditions honor the dead.” Simple enough, right? A heartfelt topic steeped in meaning, perfect for someone like me who grew up watching my abuela light candles to San Lázaro and whisper prayers on November nights. I had visions of weaving together poetic memories and historical research. Except, midway through writing, I realized something critical: I’d never actually been to a cemetery on Día de los Muertos—or any holiday tied to honoring the dead. I needed more texture, sights, sounds. Something real. Something lived. So, naturally, I did what every overzealous, slightly panicked writer does—I threw myself into the deep end.

Midnight Adventures and Questionable Life Choices

It wasn’t just any cemetery I ended up at; it was Hialeah’s oldest. The one where locals speak in hushed tones about ghost stories and passed-down legends of long-lost loves reuniting under full moons. Romantic in theory. Terrifying when you’re by yourself holding a notepad, phone flashlight wobbling against crumbling tombstones, with only the rustle of palmettos and a distant salsa beat from somebody’s late-night backyard party for company.

Within five minutes, I’d scribbled messy notes like “Candle wax stuck to dirt—a beautiful metaphor?” and “Crickets louder than expected.” And then, just as I was convincing myself I might be playful enough to spin this into a love story, headlights burst through the gates like an angry spirit in a pick-up truck.

I froze. My flight-or-fight instincts clearly malfunctioning, I panicked and dove behind a gigantic, flower-covered grave as the security guard yelled something about trespassing laws and calling the cops. Let me tell you, hiding in a cemetery is NOT the romantic narrative inspiration movies make it out to be. It is, however, a fast-track to realizing your career dedication may need reevaluating.

There I was, hugging my notebook like a life raft when the guy finally gave up searching and roared off, probably annoyed at having to patrol for slightly neurotic artistic types. But as I stood up and brushed dirt off my jeans, something shifted. Suddenly, the humor of it hit me—I’d sneaked into a cemetery, afraid of ghosts and guards alike, all for the sake of finding just the right feeling for my story. It was weird. And oddly exhilarating.

After that, I drove home grinning. Not because I’d solved my article completely—but because I understood, on a deep level, how desperate writers are for connection. Whether it's twisting in the messy depths of tradition, or seeking echoes of past lives amidst the quiet of gravestones, storytelling is about immersions like this. Ephemeral moments that feel just odd enough to reshape your perspective.

The Weird Side of Romance: What This Taught Me About Love

This misadventure isn’t just an embarrassing anecdote to share at Nochebuena dinners (though trust me, it’s a hit). It turned out to be a framework for seeing relationships in a new light. Here’s the thing—dating and love are a lot like writing. One second, things are deeply symbolic; the next, you’re awkwardly fumbling to make sense of the chaos around you. But in both, sometimes the weird detours are the best part.

Think about it:

  • Deep emotional dives are scary but necessary. Exploring love, like chasing an idea, takes guts. Walking into the unknown (figurative or, in my case, literal) feels unsafe and vulnerable—but it’s kinda where all the magic lives. There is no great love—or insight—without risk.

  • Comfort zones are overrated. When you stick to familiar terrain, you never surprise yourself. Whether it’s striking up conversation with someone out of your “type” or agreeing to salsa lessons even though you’re as coordinated as a baby deer, breaking routines brings color to your life. My little cemetery escapade? 10% sweat, 90% reminder that leaning into discomfort adds new vibrancy to stale perspectives.

  • Sometimes, you just laugh it off. The best dating stories? The awkward ones—picking spinach out of your teeth, showing up in mismatched shoes, or needing to climb out of a stuck elevator with your date as an audience. They humanize you. I’ll never forget crouching behind that grave, my pulse pounding with the realization I was hiding not from tragedy… but from a very mortal, very annoyed renta-cop. Romance thrives in moments where we shrug at the absurdity and just laugh.

Why Weirdness Strengthens Bonds

If you’re still wondering how sneaking around night cemeteries has any relationship to love, humor me a second. My family has this saying: “La vida no siempre tiene sentido, pero siempre tiene corazón.” Life doesn’t always make sense, but it always has heart. Traditions—like Cuban rituals honoring ancestors—don’t thrive because they’re logical. They stick because of love. Because people take the time to do “weird” things like pour rum into the dirt or whisper old stories after a meal. It doesn’t matter how corny or strange you feel doing them; all that matters is the meaning that blooms from the act.

Love’s that. It’s going “all in” on the strange rituals that foster connection. That awkward first meeting with someone’s family where you’re unsure if they like you—or the goofy nicknames that stick even after 20 years. A writer might visit a cemetery at midnight to make their story sing; two people might drive to three different Cuban spots at 10 p.m. for pastelitos and cortaditos just to keep the night going. All the same impulse: shared care.

Take a Lesson from the Midnight Writer

The weirdest thing I’ve ever done for a story? Sure, it was spooky midnight cemetery escapades. But it taught me this: to fully experience life, you have to be okay with stepping off the beaten path, even when it feels a little absurd. And the same is true about dating, relationships, and, well, everything else.

So next time you're skeptical about stepping out of your comfort zone—or question whether it’s worth making a big, messy effort for even small things—channel your inner storyteller: make it an adventure. Even if it’s odd. Even if it's inconvenient. Because when you look back at these moments with warmth and laughter someday, you’ll know they weren’t just “weird.” They mattered.

As for my cemetery piece, it came out beautifully—if with fewer candles and fewer ghosts than I originally planned. But every time I reread it, I remember that night. And I smile.

Here’s to taking risks, making mistakes, and letting the absurdity of life (and love) push you toward laughter, courage, and connection. ⬩