It starts with a panela*. My abuela used to say that when you cook one, its caramelized sweetness fills the entire house, takes over every corner, and plants itself so deeply into you that you carry the smell for hours. That’s what storytelling feels like to me—a panela that simmers and leaves its mark everywhere. Some days it tastes like peace, other days it’s bittersweet, but it’s always an aroma I want to share.
I write because I can’t not write.
Some people run marathons; some collect vintage records; others bake sourdough bread at two in the morning. Me? I sit at my desk (often at two in the morning, mind you), scribbling about what it means to be human. It’s not glamorous—most of the time, you’ll find me in last night's pajamas, surrounded by coffee-stained notebooks—but it’s where I feel most alive. Let me tell you why.
The Language of Love (and Chaos)
Growing up in Santiago, my childhood was like a novela on an endless loop. We lived in a house that was full of drama—not the bad kind but the kind that made you feel like you’d accidentally walked into an Almodóvar movie. Family dinners felt like theater; someone was always telling a story, adding just enough exaggeration to make it entertaining, but not so much that you’d doubt its truth. Was my tío really chased by a bull in the countryside for stealing mangos? Who cares—what mattered was the telling.
Later, when I studied comparative literature, I realized that storytelling is universal. It stretches from the most intimate love poems of Pablo Neruda to a friend’s 3 a.m. confession about their worst Tinder date. Writing has this magical way of turning chaos, heartbreak, or plain awkwardness into something meaningful. Because life is messy, right? But it’s also funny and beautiful, and when we tell our stories, we find patterns in all the madness and connect with others in ways we didn’t expect.
Finding Myself Between the Lines
You’d think by now I’d have figured out my “why.” But the truth is, I’m still searching. Writing makes me confront parts of myself I’d rather leave buried—the girl who moved to Madrid thinking she could “eat, pray, love” her way through a broken heart, the woman who sometimes feels like she’s straddling the tightrope between modern independence and the traditional values she grew up with. But isn’t that the beauty of it? Writing forces you to look in the mirror, even when your reflection isn’t all that flattering.
I write about relationships because they fascinate me. They’re messy, sure, but they’re also where we learn the most about ourselves. For instance, why do we all suddenly turn into amateur detectives when someone doesn’t text back? Or analyze emojis like we’re cracking the Da Vinci Code? Relationships reveal our hopes, insecurities, and even the parts of us that need healing. Writing gives me the space to explore that—and, if I’m lucky, help someone else feel seen too.
Stories Are Bridges
One thing I’ve learned living in cities like Buenos Aires and Madrid is that every place has its own language of love. In Santiago, it’s café con piernas (literally, coffee with legs) and stolen glances on crowded metros. In Madrid, it’s tapas shared between friends that turn into something more. Wherever I’ve gone, I’ve noticed one thing: people want to connect. Stories are the bridges that make that possible.
Take my mom, for example. She’s not just a teacher—she’s a storyteller disguised as one. She’ll overshare hilarious tales of her students, stories full of humanity that remind you kindness isn’t overrated. I guess I inherited that from her: the desire to connect and the belief that storytelling does more than entertain—it reminds us we’re not alone.
Writing Through Life’s Awkwardness (and Laughter)
If I have one motto in life, it’s this: never take yourself too seriously. Writing reminds me of that constantly. Like the time I accidentally sent an email meant for my best friend to an editor (the email detailed my plan to survive a first date by eating nachos strategically—“slowly if he’s cute, inhaling them if he’s boring”). Did I want to crawl into a hole? Yes. Did I turn it into a funny dating essay that others related to? Absolutely.
Life is full of awkward moments, and if you can learn to laugh at them, you’re already winning. Writing helps me do that. It’s the friend that says, “Girl, relax. Everyone has spilled wine on their crush’s white shirt at least once.”
Why Keep Writing?
With storytelling, the payoff isn’t immediate—there’s no cheering crowd or shiny medal at the finish line. But then a friend will text you, saying your article on getting over a breakup made them finally block their ex, or a reader comments that your story felt like sitting down for coffee with an old friend. And you realize, this is why you do it.
I could stop writing, sure. I could take up knitting or finally learn how to salsa dance “properly,” not just after two glasses of wine. But my heart keeps pulling me back to the blank page, to the panela simmering quietly in the back of my mind.
Writing is how I make sense of the messiness of life. It’s how I laugh, cry, and occasionally cringe at myself. But most importantly, it’s how I connect—with you, with the world, and with the parts of myself that are still a mystery.
If you’re reading this, thank you. Whether you’re here for advice, laughter, or even just to roll your eyes at the drama of it all, I’m glad we’ve connected. Writing may not solve all of life’s problems, but one thing is for sure—it makes navigating them a whole lot more fun. Fun, and just a little bit sweeter. Like a panela.
Like life.
