I Still Carry the Girl Who Dreamed Big in the Bronx

She's still here

The Bronx didn’t just raise me. It built my edge, my eye for energy, and my ability to read a room in seconds.

My story started with two young people trying to figure it out. My mother, a beautiful Puerto Rican woman from Harlem, gave everything she had to love me loud, protect me fiercely, and make sure I never felt invisible. My father was from the Bronx, and while their story was complicated, it gave me mine.

We didn’t have much, but my mother always made sure I had something. A moment. A memory. A lesson. Saturdays were our sacred days. She used to say, “If you don’t ask for anything, you might just get something.” And I usually did.

Books were my safe place. Still are. I’d disappear into stories, finding peace between the pages when the world felt too loud. That love for storytelling turned into performing. I was that kid. The one turning sidewalks into stages, singing like someone was always watching. At nine, I played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” a cappella. My mother was front row, clapping like it was Broadway. And yes, I even sang with Bob McGrath from Sesame Street once. I was her, and I loved it.

But something shifted and life changed.

Being a teenage girl in the Bronx came with pressure. I wanted to fit in, not stand out. So I started shrinking. I teased others before they could tease me. I laughed at jokes that hurt. I dimmed what made me different. Looking back, there are parts of myself I wish I hadn’t let go of so easily. I didn’t know then that surviving should never cost you your soul.

I’ve made mistakes. I’ve been the one who messed up. But I’ve also been the one who grew. Who did the work. Who reached back to find the version of me that existed before I thought I had to change just to belong.

And some days, the anxiety still shows up. The fear still whispers. But I don’t let it win. I move anyway. Because something inside me still believes I’m meant for more.

A friend once told me, “You’re in the in-between. The old people don’t fully get you anymore, and the new people don’t know your history yet. That space can feel lonely. But it’s where your next chapter is being written.”

That hit me. Because this version of me is no longer begging to be understood. She’s finally at peace with being misunderstood.

I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m building. Becoming. And every step forward, I carry her with me. That little girl from the Bronx who dreamed big even when life felt small. The one who loved hard, who imagined more, who sang her heart out under city streetlights.

She never left. And I’m finally walking in a way that honors her.

What About You?
What part of your younger self still lives in you, and what would she say if you finally listened?

That Said: Where you start isn’t the whole story. Keep turning the page. There’s more ahead for you than you’ve seen.

Heal & Hustle
~A