Once Upon a Vegas Fairy Tale

My parents, bless their theatrical hearts, loved a good origin story. Growing up, they spun our family life as if it were written for a Broadway stage. "We’re the little engine that could!" my mom would declare while pinning rhinestones onto a showgirl’s costume at our kitchen table. My dad, ever the drama king, would chime in, “Aurora, your grandparents came here with nothing, just chasing a dream! And look at us now. We’re proof that hard work and family will always win."

Cue the montage: my dad shining spotlights backstage on magicians making tigers disappear, my mom stitching sequins into infinity, and little me sneaking onstage at school productions because I wanted to see the world from center stage. The “Family Myth,” as I call it now, was that success wasn’t just possible—it was inevitable, as long as we stuck together. Holy Vegas, Batman, did I buy in.

But here’s what they didn’t tell me (or maybe didn’t realize themselves): Every myth starts with a little magic, but living your life based on one can sometimes leave you blind to the fine print.

Act One: Betting on Togetherness

Here’s the thing about growing up in a Vegas family. Sure, plenty of kids get raised against a backdrop of minivans and bake sales. Not me. My backdrop was red velvet curtains and neon lights blinking promises into the night sky, all dusted with the faintly metallic smell of slot machines on hot afternoons.

It’s no wonder my family packaged up their story as a big, sparkly “we made it!” fable. And honestly, who wouldn’t believe in that kind of magic when you’re little? I’d lay awake in my childhood bedroom—a modest bungalow far from the dazzling Strip—listening to my parents laugh over costumes gone wrong and props that showed up late, thinking, We’re different. We’ve cracked the code. We're one of the lucky families.

And the message was clear: hard times weren’t permanent, not when you had grit and glitter on your side. My parents sprinkled phrases like “we’re a team” and “family first” during every meal, pep talk, or minor crisis.

It sounded foolproof—like the perfect recipe for happiness. Until I got older and started noticing the cracks in that myth like stage makeup under bright lights.

Act Two: When the Glitter Fades

Here’s what no one tells you about family myths: they’re great… until life realities hit you with an encore no one requested. By the time I was old enough to catch on, I noticed that “family first” in our house didn’t look like emotional vulnerability or sharing struggles. Instead, it looked like surviving in silence.

Take my mom, for example. She could turn fabric scraps into costumes that made people applaud—literal applause!—but she'd never once admit when she was drowning in work. “I’ll manage,” she’d tell my dad when his shift backstage kept him late, leaving her buried under a mountain of chiffon she could barely see past. (Spoiler alert: She didn’t, in fact, "manage.")

And my dad? He’d crack jokes about his aching back after moving set pieces all night, but brush it off if anyone suggested he slow down. “Vega men don’t whine,” he’d say, grinning as he ignored the icy heat patch under his shirt.

As for me, I soaked this all in like the desert soaks rain after a monsoon. Their subtle cues taught me to swallow tears, double down on effort, and never ask for help. After all, how could I? The myth said we were resilient. Unstoppable. So I played my part, too.

Act Three: Real Life, Sans Spotlight

The rude awakening came not with a bang, but a slow, awkward unraveling. College brought its own chaos—and a gnawing realization that I wasn’t sure who I was outside the family myth. Away from my parents, I wasn’t anyone’s "team player" or "grit queen." What I was… was tired.

Somewhere between finals and part-time jobs, the sparkle of my family story dimmed, revealing something harsher underneath: our glittering formula for success had no room for rest, vulnerability, or, let’s be honest, failure.

I started seeing how the myth translated into my relationships, too. When I wasn’t baking banana bread to cheer up friends (despite being one bad day away from needing comfort food myself), I was the one saying, “No, it’s fine, I’ve got it,” even when I absolutely did not have it.

The myth wasn’t a lie, exactly—it just wasn’t the whole story. You can be strong and still need help. A family can stick together without ignoring its messy, tender parts. And success doesn’t mean hiding every bruise under sequins.

Act Four: Rewriting the Script

Here’s where my story takes a hopeful turn (because no one likes an endless tragedy). Over time, I started making small changes to shift my narrative. Blame the theater kid in me, but I needed to feel in control of how my story played out.

In relationships—romantic or otherwise—I started being honest when I was overwhelmed or, heaven forbid, vulnerable. (Step one: admitting I wasn’t Superwoman when my long-distance boyfriend dropped by unexpectedly during finals week. Step two: realizing he still liked me after I cried. Who knew?)

In my family, I pushed us toward a dialogue that wasn’t just about surviving but, gasp, sharing feelings. I remember one Thanksgiving when my mom meltdowned over a gravy-related disaster (relatable). Instead of passing her a tissue and a pep talk, I asked, “Mom, why do you feel like you have to hold everything together by yourself?” We laughed, we cried, we probably burnt the rolls. That moment was way more nourishing than the turkey.

The Takeaway: Breaking the Myth Doesn’t Break You

Here’s what I’ve learned by chipping away at my family’s glittering myth, piece by piece: Identity isn’t built on one set story. Sometimes, life asks you to rewrite your script, messy edits and all.

So, how do you start?

  • Identify your family “myth”: What story did you grow up believing? Maybe it’s “we always succeed,” or “we keep our problems private.”
  • Separate the good from the unhelpful: Not all myths are bad. Mine taught me resilience—but it also taught me to bottle things up. Keep what works, discard the rest.
  • Rewrite your dialogue: Speak new truths into your relationships. Let people know when you’re struggling—and let them help. Spoiler alert: They usually don’t mind!
  • Roll with the edits: Myths aren’t entirely bad—they’re just incomplete. It’s okay to love the magic, as long as you balance it with reality.

The family myth I grew up believing looked dazzling under the stage lights. But real life? Real life happens when the lights fade, and you’re left with imperfect people choosing to be there for each other anyway. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.