Chaos and Charm

The soundtrack of my childhood was Spanish music on repeat,
people talking over each other, and at least a pot of rice on the stove at all times — ya know, in case of company. The pop-over? That used to be the norm. Now? We hide every time the RingCam goes off.

Everyone was always late, everyone was always loud,
and somehow, we still managed to get sh*t done — eventually.
That was by design. If you showed up early or on time, you were helping set up. #sorrynotsorry

It was never quiet for long.
And yet, there was always laughter hiding somewhere behind the yelling.
Always a joke to smooth over the storm,
or that look that said, “Cállate.”
TRANSLATION: “You’d better shush it if you know what’s good for you.”
Cue instant fear.

There was always food, always noise, always motion.
Someone was dancing, someone was talking, someone was finding a reason to stay longer.
The Puerto Rican goodbyes could last an hour —
saying goodbye to everyone inside,
again at the door,
again in the driveway,
and one more time as they’re about to drive off.

Growing up like that teaches you things therapy can’t touch.
Like how to grow up fast, how to interact with people of all ages,
how to be loud without apology,
and how to zone out when the craziness starts.
How to be strong, independent, quick-witted —
a woman with comebacks sharp enough to end arguments before they start.

Growing up in my family was like being hazed in college.
You learned how to stand up for yourself,
how to keep your face straight when someone threw shade —
(hahaha just kidding, I have zero poker face.)
My face talks louder than my mouth sometimes…
and when to keep it cute and keep it on mute.

Because I didn’t come from calm.
I came from rhythm, from trauma, from resilience —
from people who turned chaos into conversation and attitude into art,
from people who never turned the volume down, even when life told them to.