The Book That Changed My Life

Growing up, my abuela had a saying for everything: “Dime con quién andas, y te diré quién eres” (“Tell me who you walk with, and I’ll tell you who you are”). She believed that the people we spend time with mirror back pieces of who we are—or who we want to be. For most of my teens and early twenties, I thought this little pearl of wisdom applied only to friendships and family. I certainly didn’t think it had any bearing on love. That is, until a very curious book blew the doors wide open on how I saw relationships (and myself).

Let me tell you about One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez, or as I like to call it: the literary equivalent of getting hit by a tropical storm, only to discover you’re stronger—and wetter—than you ever thought possible.

Marrying Romance and Chaos: When Love Feels Like a Telenovela

The first time I read Márquez’s masterpiece, I was 21, freshly heartbroken, and wallowing in a Miami coffee shop surrounded by tourists and overpriced pastelitos—truly the dramatic backdrop I deserved. A friend had pressed the book into my hands weeks earlier, insisting it would become my “intellectual therapy.” Honestly, I thought she was being a little extra. Therapy? From a book? But by page ten, I was hooked. Márquez’s world of magical realism—where ghosts wander town squares and entire families are cursed by their restless desires—was as enchanting and messy as my dating life.

The Buendía family, at the heart of the story, cycles through love, betrayal, obsession, and misunderstandings, and they do it with the theatrical flair of a primetime telenovela. The emotions were raw, flawed, and frustratingly relatable, like when you catch yourself overanalyzing the punctuation in someone’s text. There was José Arcadio’s whirlwind passion and melancholy, and then Amaranta, always self-sabotaging just as love gets too real. Márquez wasn’t shy about showing the human tendency to chase what’s unattainable—or to wreck what’s good out of fear.

I paused mid-page more than once, questioning my own patterns. Was I guilty of romanticizing chaos? Did I confuse unpredictability for passion, or worse, did I invite unnecessary drama because it felt familiar—like the constant ups and downs of those old-school Univision soap operas? (Side note: shoutout to Soy Tu Dueña for both raising me and ruining me.)

The Myth of Finding "The One"

What hit me hardest, though, was this theme Márquez wove throughout the book: solitude. Yet, this solitude wasn’t the kind you feel when you’re single or when your Bumble matches stop responding (ugh). It was deeper—a gnawing sense of disconnection, even when you’re surrounded by people (or swiping through endless profiles). The Buendías often mistook fleeting moments of excitement for lasting love. Sound familiar?

It dawned on me that I was stuck in my “solitude loop,” too, convincing myself every failed relationship meant I hadn’t found “The One.” I had this cinematic expectation that someone would arrive, all violins swelling, to sweep me off my feet and complete me. (Yes, I’d watched The Notebook too many times. Ryan Gosling ruined me for the everyman forever.) But Márquez’s story flipped that script.

What I learned is that no one—no matter how kind, charming, or good at making your cafecito just how you like it—can fill that existential gap for you. That gap? It’s yours to figure out. Love doesn’t erase solitude; good relationships simply make the quiet moments sweeter.

Why Being "Cursed" Isn't Always a Curse

Another thing the book laid bare is how we carry patterns from our families into our love lives. The Buendías are haunted, sometimes literally, by generations of repetitive behaviors—affairs, jealousy, self-imposed isolation. It’s like watching someone walk into the same pothole over and over (except, you know, with more magic and fewer Band-Aids).

As a daughter of Cuban immigrants, I grew up hearing stories of forbidden loves, secret rivalries, and emotional battles—many of which unfolded in my grandparents’ tiny living room, not unlike Márquez's Macondo. My family, like all families, had its own "curses," but no one ever called them that. Instead, they called them habits, like side-eyeing any guy who didn’t bring flowers or serving up silent treatment instead of meaningful resolution.

Through Márquez, I started to wonder how much of these curses I was unconsciously repeating. Did I inherit my tendency to freeze people out after a fight from my abuela? (Almost definitely.) Or my belief that love needed to be hard-earned? (My parents, without a doubt.) Recognizing these patterns didn’t magically fix them, but it gave me the power to choose whether I wanted to keep reenacting the same novela, or rewrite my own.

Practical Lessons From a Not-So-Practical Book

Now, I know what you’re thinking. What does a novel about cursed houses, banana factory massacres, and love struck ghosts teach anyone about modern relationships? But that’s the magic of Márquez—his wild stories hold some of the truest truths about human connection.

Here are just a few lessons that stayed with me, even after I stopped underlining half the book with an aggressively green highlighter:

  • Romance isn’t a cure—it’s a mirror. Your relationships reflect back the work you’ve done (or haven’t done) on yourself. If you’re not okay alone, you’ll struggle to be okay together.
  • Predictability isn’t boring; it’s comforting. Drama might make for a good plotline, but love thrives on consistency and stability. It’s okay if it feels less like fireworks and more like Sunday mornings in pajamas.
  • Recognize when you’re writing your own curse. If every relationship feels like déjà vu, take a step back. Are you chasing the wrong people? Ignoring red flags? Hoping someone else will fix what’s broken inside you?
  • Your past isn’t your destiny. Family traditions, good or bad, shape us, but they don’t define us. You can choose to let go of habits that no longer serve you.
  • A little magic goes a long way. Bring joy, spontaneity, and wonderment to love, even in the smallest ways. Play dress-up for date night. Write them a love letter, even if it’s in terrible Spanglish.

Choosing Connection Over Chaos

The beauty of One Hundred Years of Solitude is that it doesn’t wrap things up with a neat bow. It’s messy, emotional, and ambiguous—like life and, yes, relationships. But stepping away from its pages, I found myself less afraid of love’s complexity. After all, it’s not about avoiding its challenges—it’s about choosing connection despite them.

So while my abuela's words still ring true—“Tell me who you walk with, and I’ll tell you who you are”—I now know it’s okay to stumble a little along the way. What matters is who you decide to keep walking with, through storms, sunsets, and everything in between.

Because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to find the magic in the mundane—and if Márquez taught me anything, it’s that love, when done right, is nothing short of magical.