Hey secret writer!

So happy to open the door for you. I’ve been writing fueled by love and despair for as long as I can remember. I’m an author, a writer, a poet. My practice started on the walls of my childhood bedroom—love poems to my crushes, written in marker (not my mom’s favorite moment). Looking back, it was an early sign that language was how I made sense of the galaxy of emotions I was feeling. My pen allowed me to access what I couldn’t yet explain. A dope experience for a girl who always felt too much, but never really let the world see her.

I was obsessed with words, song lyrics especially. I felt like music was some sort of transmission, and my soul was listening. I could feel myself coming back from dormant mode. I used to print those lyrics and read them over and over until I knew them by heart, the medicine of my soul.

The poetry arrived naturally. It landed like a song I couldn’t stop singing. Words followed me around, and at some point, I realized I was listening to rhythm as much as the whispers (the ones you don’t hear me me shut up about, he). It started with Gustavo Cerati’s lyrics (iykyk), expanded when I read E.E. Cummings for the first time, and from that moment on, I knew: language is a portal, and I want to cross it. I don’t want to master it, but I want IN.

Maybe you will relate to this: for years, I wrote in secrecy. I was protective (even jealous) of my work. I guess because of how intimate it was, but now I know any creative act is intimate. My practice was private, untouched, and just for me. That intimacy mattered and taught me how to listen, how to touch what was real without forcing it into form too soon, something that you learn as you grow in your pen.

the drafts I always mention, the multiple notebooks saving me from heartbreak and teenage confusion, the manuscript sitting on my laptop for years, the one exploring womanhood. And then one day, I noticed something repeating itself. Call it a pattern, a thread, an inner map, but the magic is that something was definitely forming, and by paying attention to that, my first poetry book came to life.

I still remember the moment it clicked, lying in my bed, laptop opened, a whole universe of possibilities—a stranger to the city I was living in (recently moved)—and my google doc showing me something sacred. These poems (written years apart) were already in conversation. They were already a body, and because I didn’t abandon them, I noticed.

Since then, I declared myself devoted to curiosity rather than force. I let the writing shape ME instead of trying to control what comes next. I have published two books independently, with years between them, noticing with time what the work wants to become and following the, yes, you guessed, whispers. My biggest as bajo la manga to metabolize life.

From experiences that demanded language where there was none. Writing became how I honored what I lived through (proof that nothing was or is wasted), that even pain could be alchemized into art. Language has held my hand every time.

I’ve been holding creative writing spaces for over five years now, and the practice keeps showing me the same thing: we don’t do this alone. Writing needs solitude, yes—but it also needs rooms. Continuity. Reflection. The kind of collective presence that helps the work stretch beyond what we can see by ourselves.

People don’t come to me for answers. They come for what happens when their writing is met with devotion. When better questions are asked. When the work is allowed to speak before it’s questioned, feared, and resisted.

Inside it, I’m not just guiding or sharing frameworks, I’m writing alongside you. Staying with my own work. Right now, that looks like my first poetry collection in English. This is a space where the writing isn’t forgotten. where we return. where we stretch. where we keep going.