I’ve always said Miami doesn’t just raise you—it imprints on you. I’m talking about the kind of imprint that seeps into your soul, the way the scent of frita grease clings to your clothes after a late-night diner run. Growing up in Little Havana was, in a word, complicated. It’s the place where I learned to salsa before I learned long division, where Bachata Fridays on the porch were just as common as power outages during hurricane season. My relationship with home? It’s messy but passionate—like the kind of relationship where you block their number one day and call them to pick you up from the airport the next.

The Nostalgia You Can’t Quit

Let’s begin with the love part of this love/hate tango. Truth is, you can't grow up in Little Havana without developing a fierce attachment to the rhythm of the place. Life moves at the pace of a Celia Cruz song—fast, flavorful, and just a little chaotic. Everyone is your tía, even if they’re not actually related to you, and every argument about where to find the best croquetas has the intensity of a political debate. It’s a place where traditions aren’t just remembered; they’re practically shoved into your hands with a cafecito and a pastelito.

And sure, as a kid, I rolled my eyes when my abuela checked the evil eye charms around the house like a neighborhood mom checks for wet towels left on furniture. Now? I keep a protective azabache stone hanging next to my Wi-Fi router in a very Miami-meets-modern-life hybrid I never saw coming.

But home isn’t just about sweet memories. It’s also a reflection of your roots—something you might try to prune or polish when you’re younger, only to realize later it’s what makes you stand tall.

When Your Hometown Feels Too Small

For all its vibrancy, though, Little Havana wasn’t always an easy backdrop to be young and daydreaming in. There were moments Miami felt too close, too intense—like it could smother you under its neon sunsets and humid embrace. It’s a place where gossip spreads faster than a bad first date story told over group texts, and privacy is about as rare as finding street parking on Calle Ocho during Viernes Culturales.

I’ll never forget the time I bumped into an old high school flame while grocery shopping for plantains. It wasn’t just that I ran into him; it was that by the time I got home, my mom already knew. (“Did you see Nacho? He drives a Toyota now. Looks muy responsible.”) Dating in Miami wasn’t just dating the person—you were lowkey dating their entire upbringing too.

And speaking of dating: Miami men. Listen, I love my people, but a part of me wonders if the humidity-wracked air does something to our collective ability to commit. I once had a guy text me “Dale, we should hang out,” and when I asked him what day, he responded: “Someday.” Someday!?

Lessons I’ve Learned from a Little Havana Upbringing

Here’s the thing about growing up in a place that’s equal parts beautiful and overwhelming—it shapes you. Miami doesn’t raise wallflowers; it cultivates people with wit sharp enough to cut through the humidity and resilience like a palm tree during hurricane season. So, after years of working through my love/hate relationship with home, I've realized it gave me more gifts than grievances.

  1. You Learn How to Love Big.
    Families in Little Havana run deep (often into your personal business), but that overbearing love? I’ve carried that into my connections. Whether I’m meeting someone new or in a steady relationship, I’ve learned that love isn’t just shown with flowers and date nights—it’s in the little things, like saving the last spoonful of arroz con frijoles for someone.

  2. You Learn the Importance of Storytelling.
    When your life is filled with relatives swapping tales about “so-and-so’s cousin’s boss” at every family barbecue, you learn the craft of a good story. That storytelling instinct has made me better at connecting with people. Bonus: it makes small talk less of a chore and more of an opportunity for a funny anecdote about that one time in middle school when I tried to join the “emo” phase (hint: it was a short-lived failure).

  3. You Learn When to Leave the Noise Behind.
    Look, loving where you’re from doesn’t mean you have to stay there forever. Just like in any relationship, sometimes you need a little space to figure out who you are. During my stints in New York, I learned to love the anonymity of a big city. Nobody cared if I went out in mismatched socks, and my dating experiences were refreshingly free from my abuela’s commentary. But the funny thing about leaving home? It makes you miss it fiercely.

From Love/Hate to Gratitude

My relationship with home has shaped every story I tell, every connection I make, and yes, every time I flirt with the idea of returning (figuratively and literally). I’ve come to accept that Little Havana’s chaos is as much a part of me as its charm. It’s in the way I approach relationships with both warmth and passion, like I’m welcoming someone into a family gathering where no one ever leaves hungry. It’s in my ability to see beauty in imperfections because, let’s face it, salsa dancing in a crowded backyard is never graceful but always joy-filled.

So, if you’ve ever felt conflicted about where you grew up, here’s my advice: let yourself embrace the duality. Love it for what it was, cringe at what it wasn’t, but never forget how it shaped the storyteller in you. Because just like in dating, our connections to home are never simple—but the best ones rarely are.