Honesty that sparks connection.
What's happening: It's Women's History Month, and the woman I keep coming back to isn't in a textbook. She's in my phone contacts.
What you'll find here: A letter about my mom, the quiet ways she's shaped who I'm becoming, and why I'm learning that some spaces have to earn your full self.
The real talk: I spent years making myself easier to hold. I'm still unlearning it — and she's the reason I believe it's possible.
My mom has been really into making bracelets lately.
Beaded ones, colorful ones, stacked so high on her wrist that they clink when she moves. Aveces — I'll be honest — they look a little silly. And I catch myself thinking it. That's a lot. And then I catch myself catching myself, and I just... let her have it. Because watching her wear them, you'd think she invented joy. She's not making bracelets for anyone. She's making them because they make her happy, and that is the whole, complete story.
My mom has always been like this. Unapologetically herself, even when — especially when — the people around her (including me) had opinions about it. She doesn't perform for the room. She doesn't soften her edges to make others comfortable. She doesn't negotiate her joy. And for most of my life, that quality frustrated me, because I am so different from her.
I care about what people think. A lot. I chase belonging, and I've paid for it in ways I'm still adding up — staying quiet when I should have spoken, agreeing when I didn't, making myself smaller so the space I took up wouldn't inconvenience anyone.
She's fierce and I often feel soft next to her. But the older I get, the more I understand that her fierceness isn't something I need to copy. It's something she's showing me is possible.
A few years ago, I was sitting at my desk at work and someone rhetorically asked me, "You’re very girly huh?" as she looked around my desk. I had a Hello Kitty planner. A floral phone case. A pink pencil case and a pink travel mug. I love those things. I always have.
Pero esa noche when I went home, I started wondering. Should I change it? Does this make me look less serious? Less authoritative? I'm a first-gen Latina navigating corporate spaces with a brain full of imposter syndrome and I already spend so much energy convincing rooms that I belong in them. The last thing I needed was my Hello Kitty planner working against me 😩
That math — where you trade a piece of yourself for a little more belonging — is so quiet you almost don't notice you're making it. You just show up one day a little less like yourself, y un poquito más like what you think the room wants.
I used to go by Ana.
Not my full name — Viridiana — which is a mouthful, I know. But Ana was easy. Ana didn't require anyone to ask where my name came from. Ana let me walk into rooms without immediately flagging that I was different, that I came from somewhere specific, that my roots ran deep in a culture I wasn't always sure professional spaces had room for. Ana was the version of me that was easier to hold.
I go by Viry now. It's not the full Viridiana either, but it's mine — the nickname my family gave me, the name that sounds like me when I say it out loud. Going back to it was a small thing that meant everything. It was the first time I consciously chose myself over belonging. And once I made that choice, I started making it in other places too.
I'm still very much in the middle of this. The reclamation isn't done — I don't think it ever is, really. I'm in what I've started calling the becoming stage. Still figuring out who I am when I'm not performing for approval. Still holding onto the courage to claim things, even when claiming them sets me apart.
The thing is you don't owe every space your full self. Not every room has earned it. The goal isn't to be your whole self everywhere, all the time, for everyone. The goal is to know the difference between the spaces that have earned it and the ones that haven't — and to stop giving yourself away for free to the ones that haven't done the work.
My mom has always known that. She doesn't audition for anyone. She walks in as herself and lets the room figure out what to do with that. I'm learning, slowly, to do the same.
She's the history I keep coming back to. The one who showed me that claiming your joy, your name, your bracelets, your “girly” aesthetic — none of it requires permission. It just requires the courage to decide you're worth showing up for.
I'm working on that courage. I hope you are too. 💚