Aries placement femmes

• direct

• hilarious

• unapologetic in their pursuit of new hobbies & thrills

Thank you for teaching how to harness my rage. For showing me that there’s something sacred about unleashing that which we’re told to suppress and for demonstrating how to pursue every hobby that piques your interest. You embody the “do it scared and before you’re ready” energy my practical ass needs to tap into and for that I love the shit outta y’all. May all of your scathing critiques be given the respect they deserve and all of your new projects blessed with success.

Taurus placement femmes

• grounded

• indulgent

• creative

Thank you for teaching me that hard work does not mean that I abandon or martyr myself. For helping me understand that pleasure should be weaved into any creative process, and that having a laugh or eating a sweet treat while doing the thing is key to a well-rounded life. You embody the “idc how fast everyone is going imma go at my own pace and still win” attitude that we all need to harness in this fast-paced, comparison-ridden world and for that I love the f*ck outta y’all. May all of your new recipes, shopping sprees, and napping sessions be as exquisite as you.

Gemini placement femmes

• curious

• chaotic

• smart af

Thank you for teaching me that multiple things can be true at once. That changing your mind doesn’t have to be controversial, and that being curious about everything and everyone can, in fact, be a personality trait. Y’all drive me crazy because my rigid ass wants to operate within the confines of certainty, but I have come to appreciate your constant invitation to wade in the water of curiosity—it’s deff more interesting there. You embody the “yes and” spirit more than any other placements and for that I love y’all. May you have time to read all of the books on your nightstand, cook up the right amount of drama for the plot, and be given your flowers for being the most underrated teachers of the zodiac.

Cancer placement femmes

• caring

• discerning

• loyal

Thank you for the invitation to be gentler, and to show up when no one is watching. For showing me that caring for and about people is one of the most noble, anti-capitalist pursuits that exists, and that crying is a sacred practice. You embody a quiet, yet steadfast strength that makes people underestimate you, and reminds me that power doesn’t always have to be loud. I love you for encouraging me to embrace my tenderness even if historically I have done it with great reluctance or skepticism. May your people show up for you and shower you with the care, adoration, and consistency you pour into them.

Leo placement femmes

• magnetic

• opinionated

• bold

Thank you for inviting me to be the main character of my life. For leading by example by centering yourself, your needs and opinions while rejecting the cultural scripts we’ve been bamboozled into following. For teaching me that being the center of attention does not, per se, make you conceited, and even if it did, would that be such a bad thing? I love y’all for embodying a taboo confidence that is becoming less so because of women/femmes like you who make no apology for wanting and pursuing everything they want. May you keep blazing your own path and looking radiant in the process.

Virgo placement femmes

• methodical

• precise

• allergic to bs

Thank you my fellow judgmental, earthy sisters for encouraging me to constantly raise my own standards. I can confidently say that most, if not all, of the better decisions I’ve made in life have been in some way influenced by a virgo placement (specifically sun or moon) femme. Your ability to anticipate needs, problem-solve and improve any space you’re in should be studied and praised. Thanks to you, we are all one less shitty decision away from self-destruction and that should not be taken for granted. May your inner critic take a well-deserved sabbatical so that you can bask in the glory of your excellence and appreciate how badass and inherently deserving you are.

Libra placement femmes

• flirty

• fun

• diplomatic

Thank you for teaching me about the power of throwing respectful yet judicious shade. For embodying the phrase “you catch more bees with honey” and inviting me to see flirty wiles as a powerful tool for getting shit done. I used to scoff at what I assumed was disingenuous, superficial ass-kissing, but witnessing y’all in real time wield this kind of diplomatic power has made me a believer. May you continue to use every tool at your disposal to get what you deserve while learning to be more boundaried in the process.

Scorpio placement femmes

• thorough

• intuitive

• alluring

Thank you, my scorpio bbs, for teaching me about the power of rebirth and regeneration. For showing me that there is, indeed, beauty in the breakdown and providing a container for all of my spooky thoughts. Y’all are unafraid of sorting through the messier parts of life, often leading the charge in unearthing the truth. You embody the spirit of facing and making friends with your demons and for that I am forever indebted to you. I love you horny bitches—may your sex drive and ambition continue to take you far!

Sagittarius placement femmes

• unhinged

• extraordinary

• insatiable in your quest for adventure

Thank you for encouraging me to never settle for an ordinary existence. For pushing boundaries, taking a match to stale conventions, and reminding me that you can still look hot in the process. Your deranged sense of humor is matched only by your quest to expand your mind and stamp your passport. I am in awe of your eternal optimism and hope that this belief in something bigger, and better, will open doors and make accessible opportunities for you that may have felt out-of-reach.

Capricorn placement femmes

• discerning

• ambitious

• consistent

Ahh, my own sign(s)/placements. Thank you for giving me the wherewithal to keep on when I really don’t want to keep on. I love our ability to think strategically and play the long-game while taking care of the people we love. I used to wish I was less rigid and judgmental, but I’ve come to reframe these qualities as me being discerning. May our five and ten year plans include time to celebrate the detours and enjoy the process of becoming.

Aquarius placement femmes

• innovative

• contemplative

• unbothered

Thank you for modeling how to be forward-thinking without being crushed by the contradictions of our current reality. For engaging in olympic level intellectual sparring and making it look like child’s play, and reminding me that every seemingly nonsensical curiosity is a portal to a realization that demands to be experienced. I love and appreciate y’all for marching to the beat of your own drum and inspiring the collective to do the same. May you continue to be on the cutting-edge of the newest trend, policy change, and musical talent!

Pisces placement femmes

• dreamy

• empathetic

• wise

Thank you for softening the edges of my cavernous heart with your insightful questions and genuine desire to know how I’m ~really~ doing. I love y’all for making vulnerability beautiful and normalizing big displays of emotion. Your ability to step in and out of the dream/astral realm and share your ethereal wisdom with us is something I am so grateful for. May you continue to show us all how being delulu really is the solulu to life’s woes, and may you be surrounded by creatures who provide you with a harmonious place to pontificate on all your existential questions.

If you made it to the end, ty and congrats! Drop your own appreciations for your fav zodiac in the comments below.

With love and LOLs,

Denia

Will my lungs still be hyper sensitive to the smog?

How will my westernized tummy fare against the delicious street food?

Am I going to feel perpetually out of place?

What if my family thinks my gluten and dairy allergies are excuses not to eat their home-cooked meals?

Will my diasporic ache for this place I have such a tenuous connection to be cured by this visit?

Don’t get me wrong, I was excited. Excited to see family I hadn’t seen in decades, to explore the sights all of my friends with papers had been telling me about for years, and to reconnect with a part of myself that I left behind when I migrated north with my parents in the 90s. However, I was also worried. Worried that my expectations for this long-awaited homecoming would fall short and leave me with a deeper complex about who I am and where I belong.

From the moment I touched down at the Benito Juárez airport, however, I experienced an immediate sense of familiarity and ease that made me sad about not having visited sooner. After deplaning, I waltzed through the customs line and was welcomed with a smile and “bienvenida” by the aduana agent.

There was no aggressive questioning or intimidating laws to navigate, only signs in Spanish (with English translation at the bottom) and friendly Mexican faces happy to answer my questions. On the other side of the customs line was my beloved cousin Mary—who is an aries sun, cancer moon, and leo rising. She was eagerly waiting with a handmade sign and makeshift serenata. The sign read “Bienvenida a tu país México” or “welcome to your country, México” and the song playing out of her pocket bluetooth speaker was Cielito Lindo, a Mariachi classic known to elicit tears from even the most stoic drunken tío.

My eyes fixated on the “tu país.” After spending my entire life in a country fighting to prove I belong, it was a relief to be somewhere that not only welcomed my presence, but celebrated it. My body and brain finally relaxed, I was home.

Being undocumented is bizarre and tragique in so many ways. Besides the fear element—which is very real and especially elevated these days—there’s an aspect of performing tied to survival that seeps into every aspect of your existence. I can’t remember a season of life where I haven’t spent an ungodly amount of time contemplating how my actions or words will be perceived, whether these would impact my life and that of my family, or somehow reveal that I was an imposter. Being in a hyper-vigilant state was suffocating, but I couldn’t fathom an alternative, so at some point I surrendered and continued worshipping at the altar of assimilation.

Don’t get me wrong, my sacrifices were rewarded in the form of achieving some traditional markers of success, but what I rarely interrogated until recently was what this all cost me. After spending a lifetime trying to please the White, U.S.ian gaze, I could more or less blend in, but my ties and connection to my cultural roots eroded. I learned to be palatable, to frame everything within the ~American Dream~ narrative, and to never commit the cardinal sin of being too Mexican—aka too boisterous, too ethnic, or too demonstrative—lest I be ejected from polite (read: White, American) society. I was regularly reminded by my peers that they knew I wasn’t one of them, and that my welcome was conditional so long as I continued being different but non-threatening.

It wasn’t until I arrived at the airport to Mary’s aggressive hospitality that I realized how deprived my life was of bold and audacious expression. México and my people are unapologetically loud—visually, metaphorically, and literally. Nothing we do is demure, and that is part of our charm. From the spice in our salsa, to the vivid murals dedicated to a free Palestine, to the vivacious trajineras and the hand-painted signs that adorn them, everything we do is extra, and that is why you either love or hate us.

We are a chalant people, and we don’t care if you think we’re too much or cringe. I should say though, I used to care and grew up feeling self-conscious about how extra we are. Visiting my country though, cured me of this insecurity and made me realize how much time I had wasted in my youth trying to suppress what is actually a gift.

Mexicans, I am convinced, are the masters of show and tell. They don’t just tell you how much you mean to them, they prove it with their grand gestures, cheesy WhatsApp glitter messages, and insistence on overfeeding or in some way taking care of you. Their overbearing love and passion is demonstrated through acts of service and over time. If you ever have to question where you stand with a Mexican because they have not showered you with care or love, they probably don’t fuck with you.

I experienced this firsthand on my trip. My family didn’t just say bienvenida, they gave up their room so that my friend Rachel and I could stay in it and took time off work to play tour guide for the duration of our trip. They took my food allergies seriously and prepared meals from scratch and then insisted on paying for our meals when we ate out; and they coordinated the most beautiful outings so that I could take in all that I had missed in the last almost-quarter century.

On my birthday, my family didn’t just say feliz cumpleaños, my paternal abuelita made mole, rice, and nopal salad from scratch; my tío and tía decorated their patio with streamers so that we would have a nice outdoor space to dance and play games in; and my cousins made everyone the most delicious tequila-sodas and botana to keep the party going. They didn’t just want to tell me how glad they were that I was born, they needed to show me—and I happily obliged them.

When I flew up to La Garita, Jalisco to visit my maternal side of the family, my tías didn’t say te extrañamos (we missed you), they busted out old pictures of me from the last time I was there and then proceeded to give my friends and I a tour of the neighboring towns. They showed me how they had memorialized my presence by framing my baptism outfit and showcasing my quinceañera pictures in my grandparents’ living room. Time and life in the rancho was slower than in CDMX, my family there is not as raucous in their expressions, but what remained the same was how their actions demonstrated their affection. They too gave up their own comforts so that my friends and I would have our own beds, drove us around, and handmade fresh tortillas and beans to feed us after a long day. Each moment spent with each of my relatives and within Mexico generally was its own declaration of love that I will cherish for eternity.

After two glorious weeks, I returned to the U.S.—a week before Tr*mp’s inauguration. When I said goodbye to my family before heading to the airport, I cried a little harder and squeezed them a little tighter than when I first landed. So much life and loss happened in the 24 years I was absent, and there was a part of me that knew there would be even more that I would miss out on. Despite having DACA and the privilege of traveling on Advance Parole, I knew that the political landscape upon which both of those temporary privileges were granted would be rapidly shifting. I did not know if, when, or on what terms I might return and that gutted me.

My trip gave me the opportunity to not only reconnect with a part of myself that I had lost, but also imagine what my life could have been like had I never left. I gained a visceral understanding of the term “diasporic ache” when I returned to Mexico: I learned that it was less about longing, and more about grieving. Seeing my cousins live full lives and move so freely without ever questioning their place in or connection to Mexico made me ache for that kind of belonging—it made me sad for the part of me that had let this idea of fitting in consume so much of her that she eschewed what made her stand out.

Who and what could I have been had I not spent so much of my time “earning” my place and proving my worth to a country that was dead set on scapegoating people like me? That question lingers in the back of mind and lives maybe not totally rent-free, but at least on subsidized rent in my noggin.

Despite being a boogery and existential wreck on the flight back, I also felt a sense of calm and clarity. México taught me that I come from a culture and people who aren’t afraid of loving or living, even in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. México taught me that laughter, dancing, and relajo is the antidote to fear and loneliness, that being educated and well-read will get me far but will not spiritually nourish me. And most importantly, México taught me that I do not have to prove my worth to anyone, that my actions should always speak louder than my words and that there is so much about my heritage I have to be proud of.

As I sat on the plane and replayed the colorful memories of my trip, I made space for new questions to emerge:

How can I embody the lessons of care and hospitality my family showed me, especially during an authoritarian takeover?

Which narratives about being Mexican and an immigrant do I need to discard in order to live more boldly?

Inshallah there will be many more homecomings, but in the meantime, I’m savoring the experiences and questions from my last visit.

With love and LOLs,

Denia

Since my first post, I have gotten more comfortable exploring the inner workings of my brain and sharing what I have learned or am learning in the process. I wasn’t sure how or whether what I was experiencing would land, but have been pleasantly surprised by the feedback I’ve received. While many of y’all reading are personal friends (love y’all down!!), this platform has connected me to kind strangers I have yet to meet. I am grateful for you all and am excited to continue writing, taking creative risks, and exploring what these ramblings can morph into.

This month is about practicing gratitude and deep reflection. I am relishing the fact that a year ago, I had 3 subscribers and am currently at 147 (weee!). A year ago, I was very unemployed and being asphyxiated by my nihilism — now (after 10 months on the hunt) I am fully employed and actively fighting my existential dread by building community and letting my imagination wander. A year ago, I was lamenting the fact that I was about to turn 35 and had not yet achieved traditional markers of “success” and “adulthood” (i.e. marriage, children, gainful employment, legal status, home ownership). Now, I am fully embracing my still-in-progress life and appreciating that I haven’t (yet) gotten everything I thought I wanted.

Thank you for bearing witness and supporting me with your time, eyeballs, and wallets (shoutout the paid subscribers!). I am excited to continue pouring into this creative endeavor and experimenting with the substance, aesthetic, and delivery of my content.

With love and LOLs,

Denia

Before I dive in, I’d like to share some exciting news: a bitch is officially employed! After 10 grueling months of taking Ls in this job market, I landed a job that I’m excited about.

Since I refuse to participate in the LinkedIn-ification of our precious Substack, I’ll let you stalk that platform for more deets, but in the meantime, just know I am happy and feel like the windy road I took to get here was worth the tears and anguish.

In the last few months, I took to nannying and doing legal contract work to survive capitalism. While this hustle was not new —I was juggling four gigs this summer too— the shift in my ~energy~ and confidence definitely was. I spent the first six months of 2025 feeling self-conscious and insecure. I felt ashamed of choosing out of a stable legal career when there is plenty of need for immigration lawyers during these ~unprecedented times~, but the end of the summer and eclipse season ushered in a new IDGAF-ness I have been cherishing and allowing to guide my decision-making as of late.

My last post was about how mutual aid helped me survive my first few months of unemployment in our zippy descent into fascism, but what I left out and want to pick up here is a brief summary of other practices that also kept me afloat. In no particular order, I present a short list of what kept me sane (or helped ground me after a menty b, of which there were plenty):

1. The Artist’s Way

I was skeptical of this woo woo white woman, but I have to say that Julia Cameron’s spiritual approach to unleashing our inner creative worked for me. I especially appreciated her exercises on unpacking who we think God is, what our limiting beliefs are around making a living as a creative, and the concept of abundance. Not to get all witchy, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I landed this job in the midst of all this inner work I was doing around identifying and cultivating my gifts, being explicit about what I want, and trusting that the right opportunities would come after naming these. I haven’t been as diligent about the artist dates, but the journaling and reflection exercises opened up new portals in my brain I didn’t know existed.

2. Nannying

Spending time with and caring for Iman (a triple earth sign and a capricorn sun like yours truly) taught me to savor simple (and sometimes chaotic) mornings. She and I would start our day on her designated drawing rug, doodling in her notebooks and talking about the colors, and then go for a walk around the neighborhood where she’d point out notable landmarks (poo poo! fishees, airplanes), passersby (BIG TRUCK! woof woof!) and activities people were doing (behbeh cry, music). Even though I am solidly in the #ChildlessByChoice camp, getting to see the city through her eyes and watching her brain grow as we engaged in our little rituals made me better understand why someone would choose to parent. These tiny tyrants force you to be present and zero in on life’s priorities (eating, sleeping, resting, and frolicking/wandering). My world view widened and has been filled with endless wonder thanks to my mornings with her <3

3. Playing with my ~aesthetic~

Like most femmes and AFAB people, I have struggled with my body and ideas of appropriate femininity for as long as I can remember. I grew up resenting the gendered stereotypes I was expected to adhere to as a Mexican cis woman (for good reasons!), but in the process of rejecting and questioning these, my resentment morphed into internalized misogyny (oops). I was a proud tomboy. I played sports, hated the color pink, and especially hated anything that could be considered “girly.” This internalized misogyny robbed me of the simple joys of dressing up and experimenting with my style. In the last year, however, I gave myself permission to play with makeup and experiment with clothes on my own terms. I am still healing my inner pick-me, but I’ve learned that slapping some lashes on her while blasting Charli xcx and Dua Lipa keeps her quiet. There is power and creativity in adorning oneself when its done on your own terms, and the practice of getting ready/putting together a cute outfit is one that has helped me feel confident even as my inner world (and the outer one) is in shambles.

4. Snapping pics of nyc corners

This practice is in part inspired by one of the many exercises in The Artist’s Way, but it took on its own life. I don’t know what it is about corners of apartment buildings and houses in NYC that has me in a chokehold, but I have loved stopping during my little neighborhood jaunts to capture the colors, cloud formations, and greenery emerging from or around people’s homes. Going outside to metaphorically touch grass after doomscrolling or taking job application Ls often meant taking a walk (cause it’s free) and experiencing unexpected moments of joy.

2025 has been a doozy (for many of us for many reasons). While I am closing out my unemployment chapter, I know there are too many people who are still navigating these choppy and unforgiving job hunt waters. I hope that whatever you are experiencing or navigating in this moment, you can find moments to experience connection, create new rituals, and find beauty in the unexpected.

With love and LOLs,

Denia

My devotion to them came naturally. As my mother tells it, I was an attentive sibling who seamlessly embraced the role of second caretaker—even at the tender age of 4. One of my favorite baby Denia anecdotes is from when my brother, German, was only a few months old. My mom had just put him down for a nap and went to take a quick shower. She figured he’d be asleep long enough for her to take care of her own neglected needs and was both horrified and touched when mid-shampoo, she sees me

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Pardon my v delayed post. The last few months of my ~rebrand~, aka my unemployment/professional pivot, has had me feeling—and on occasion, looking—a little raggedy. For the first time in my adult life, I’ve had creditors hounding me about making a minimum payment, my fake-but-has-real-consequences credit score has taken an embarrassing nose dive, and were it not for the kindness of concerned and proactive friends and family, I might not have made my rent in March or April. I’ve never been in such a financially or professionally precarious position, and the shame I’ve had to work through as a result of the aforementioned woes has made me, a Capricorn, eldest daughter, oscillate between despair and manic action.

They say misery loves company, but in my case it mostly makes me incredibly angry that the uncertainty and panic I experienced during my bout of unemployment is sadly shared by many Americans. Both private and public sector employers have laid people off en masse this year and while a small part of my shame was tempered by the understanding that forces beyond my control were affecting my ability to be fully employed, I was scared about what this period would mean for my ability to stay afloat.

To top off this shit pie, the scary increase in ICE abductions and passage of devastating legislation has made the already complicated task of existing even more overwhelming. My dread, fear, anxiety, and nihilism could have teamed up like the power rangers and overtaken the control panel of my brain and lead me down a devastating spiral. However, I have mostly been ok (ok all things considered) weathering the various storms thanks to the overwhelming material and emotional support I’ve received from my community.

I started reading Dean Spade’s Mutual Aid in late February/early March because while I am versed in the concept, I wanted to read about other examples and a more theoretical approach to this practice. What I realized while reading this book during this season of receiving is that unlike charity, mutual aid is about acting from a place of love and sense of what is just. It is our collective response to the failures of the broken institutions that govern us and about an uncompromising commitment to care for each other. When our “leaders” and systems abandon us, regular degular people step in and show us that the kinder, more equitable world we deserve does indeed exist, and our “collective coordination” as Dean Spade calls it, is proof of that. (I might have wept typing that).

As a Mexican immigrant and Christian, I was raised to believe in (and practice) giving freely to others. My parents regularly demonstrated to me and my brothers what hospitality looks like by hosting parties, family, friends and insisting on giving up our own comfort if it meant our guests could feel more at home during their visits. It looked like spending hours making friends mixtapes of their favorite songs by different artists, bringing people food after they’ve had babies or medical procedures, and starting tandas to help people pay their debt. Despite observing mutual aid and hospitality in action for decades, I didn’t always feel comfortable being on the receiving end until more recently. In other words, I believed in practicing mutual aid when it meant I was giving to others, but have been uncomfortable letting my community meet my needs for fear of being a burden. I certainly did not imagine I would be needing to lean into receiving at the big age of 35. The universe/God has a funny (read: sick and sometimes wretched) way of teaching me to be vulnerable and experience the care and expansiveness I’ve often freely given to strangers and loved ones alike. Throughout the last few months of my humiliating job hunt, I’ve received a kind of love-in-action via mutual aid that has only reinforced my belief in this practice. Letting your friends and family pay your rent and buy you groceries when you’re a proudly self-sufficient and stubborn Capricorn has been as vulnerable as and akin to me shitting my pants in public and letting someone I love clean up the mess—while I watch. (Sorry not sorry for the caca comparison, it really was that painful and shameful initially). However, after getting over myself and telling my pride to callarse el hocico, I learned that receiving care and letting people in is crucial for practicing what I preach and living out my values.

There are so many layers to giving/receiving mutual aid that I could unpack here, but I’d rather you pick up Dean Spade’s book and shoot me a text or DM about your thoughts instead. The point of my post here is to let y’all know that Im doin’ alright (all things considered), I am grateful for the community and loved ones who’ve wiped my shitty booty the last few months (metaphorically), and helped me cobble together a string of side hustles to get by. The job market is still terrible, our institutions and gov continue to crumble, but the power of the people remains strong despite their best efforts to squash our spirit and love for each other. I remain grounded in my commitment to myself, my community, and birthing a more just and equitable world; I look forward to continuing to implement the lessons on receiving I learned in the spring so that the summer, fall, and winter feel a little less bleak. Thank you for reading, for existing in the same weird timeline as me, and believing that we each deserve a gentler, more loving existence.

With love and LOLs,

Denia

P.S. working 3-4 jobs has made it difficult for me to carve out time to write, but my goal is to send you all something once a month. Whether you just subscribed or have been a day 1 homie, thank you for your patience and support <3

I was allowed to question and push back on machista double standards, encouraged to focus on school and extracurriculars, and explicitly instructed not to get distracted by love in my quest for greatness. After all, I did not overcome a couple of near-death experiences in my infancy and my parents did not sacrifice so that I could be mediocre. Al contrario, I was given a mandate to excel: si vas a hacer algo, hazlo bien. My dad was instrumental in driving that point home and reminded me every evening, when he would check my homework, that whatever I submitted was a reflection of my character and by extension, a reflection of their parenting; therefore, cuidadito con hacer las cosas a lo pendejo.

Even though I’m the eldest and only daughter, I often joke that I was raised as the first-born son. Like many boys, I was coddled and overprotected to a certain extent, but not because of my gender. My childhood disability made me exempt from having to take on many of the responsibilities expected of girls, but this freepass, like free lunches, had to be paid. The liberties granted to me were actually investments my parents expected to cash in on by way of my academic and professional achievements. I did not disappoint. I loved school and loved making my parents proud even more, a lethal combination that resulted in exceeding societal and even my own expectations.

As my mom tells it, I’ve always been a fan of stories. My first favorite book was a fairytale about a princess and a frog and my favorite Disney movie was The Little Mermaid, but I promise my taste has since evolved. In between reading and dreaming up scenarios that I would then direct my younger cousins and brothers to execute, my early years were spent hooked up to a nebulizer. Albuterol was my best friend, as was my spacer and pediatrician, Dra. Gutierrez. Whenever I started to wheeze and feel my chest tighten, I knew it was time to stop whatever activity I was in the middle of and walk over to my mom so that she could listen to my lungs, just like the doctor showed her. She would lean over or kneel to get on my level, ask me to turn and face the wall and take slow, deep breaths while she pressed her ear against my back.

Depending on the severity of the constriction, I’d either take a puff of my inhaler and be on my merry way or sit in my plastic chair and strap on a child-sized darth vader mask that carried precious oxygen into my tiny, asthmatic lungs. This was a familiar ritual, one that I regularly initiated at the first sign of trouble and rarely questioned. It helped that everyone in my family normalized it—we all knew that playtime would likely get disrupted if I participated, but my cousins mostly accommodated my needs without complaint and included me in the hoopla. I guess I was lucky, or maybe they pitied me, but either way, I got to experience a relatively ordinary childhood despite my frequent asthma attacks. In hindsight, being chronically ill as a kid and the treatment I received from my family as a result prepared me for the chaos of growing up undocumented and set the bar for the kind of community and support I would gravitate towards in order to survive.

I was born on a Friday in December of 1989. My birth certificate says that I am from Tlalnepantla de Baz, a part of Mexico City that I know very little about and am unfamiliar with because my parents and I came to the US when I was 11 months old. I turned one and took my first steps in San Francisco, CA in December, 1990 and have celebrated all but one of my 35th birthdays here. Don’t get it twisted though, my love and connection to my place of birth runs deep. The chh chh chh chh chh chh of cumbia sonidera instantly awakens something ancestral in me, and my appreciation for the unruliness of NYC is probably rooted in my CDMX origins, a city that is also deeply flawed and chaotic but also majestic and hypnotic.

Both my parents are 1 of 11 siblings and while most of my dad’s family still lives in Mexico City, my mom was one of the youngest and last in her family to migrate north. My three younger brothers were all born here and my parents now, gracias a dios, have their papers, but I, at my big age with my fancy law degree, continue to be undocumented—well, DACAmented to be precise. Most days I’m unbothered by this man-made technicality, I've learned to compartmentalize and set aside unrealistic aspirations so as not to break my own heart. But as I get older and experience the continued limitations of my ambitions, and demonization of my community, the less patience I have for paying taxes and $500+ dollars every year and a half to maintain this dysfunctional, deteriorating experiment. Every new headline, every botched attempt at passing progressive legislation, and every wretched executive order elicits a visceral reaction. My fists and jaw clench in unison, my toes curl in rage, and my asthmatic lungs, which have thankfully been in remission since my teens, start to feel like they did when I had to regularly use my nebulizer. I close my eyes and I’m five again, donning my favorite San Francisco 49ers shirt in our apartment on South Van Ness, running over to my mom so she can listen to my breathing. Aver, respira. I inhale, remembering that for the most part, I am safe. No pasa nada, puedes seguir jugando. I exhale the bullshit and go back to completing my tasks.

Dios aprieta pero no ahorca. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when I learned this saying, but I find myself using it as a spiritual inhaler whenever I feel like God’s clutching me a little too tightly. I recite it in my head, visualizing it as a verbal puff of albuterol going into my throat and down into my lungs to help open up my constricted airways—it’s also my way of reminding Him/Her/Them of Their promise not to asphyxiate me or my fellow undocumented and perpetually downtrodden folks. Could He/She/They maybe loosen Their grip and focus on the oligarchs and fascists for a bit? I think me and the Global South have suffered enough and could really catch a break. This internal monologue quickly evolves into a debate when the right side of my brain takes over and reminds me that the merciful and just God, the one who gave us socialist hippie Jesus, is not at fault. White supremacy and its evil twin, capitalism—which were created by men with free will—are to blame for the bulk of our current problems and Satan himself probably feels outdone by the hell we’re currently experiencing on earth. My left brain chimes in with two questions: but what about divine intervention? Why can't God get all old testament and smite these assholes—He/She/They have performed miracles and stopped awful things before, right? I roll my eyes at myself and let out a sigh, followed by a deep inhale: dios aprieta pero no ahorca.

A veces aparecen ángeles que uno no espera. I grew up Catholic, so of course I learned about and believe(d) in guardian angels. These ethereal beings often depicted as babies or children with wings who are floating about in our orbit and supposedly protect us from ourselves and others, are not what my tía Luisa was referring to when she said this to me last summer, however. The unexpected angels she spoke of were ordinary people who slowly became her family by their showing of kindness and support when she first migrated. My tía Luisa was the first of my mom’s siblings to come to San Francisco in 1979 by way of the San Ysidro/Tijuana border. She remembers that back then, it was untouched by the heavily armed agents and grotesque metal fence we see now. There was only a rope that separated the US from Mexico and she simply walked across it to make her way to the Bay Area.

She was 21, from a small, rural town three hours outside of Guadalajara, unfamiliar with the culture and language, and moved without having close relatives nearby. She became a mom, married, and learned to navigate the Muni system with the help of some angels—strangers from all over Latin America and some Italians too who, over time, became family. These heavenly beings helped her recover from a traumatic c-section, brought her food and helped take care of my cousins while she recovered, and showed her how to catch the 14 bus from Daly City all the way to Market Street in downtown San Francisco. As she recounted the names and nationalities of her angels, and the acts of service they provided during her difficult and uncertain transition to the U.S., I thought about my own encounters with angels.

Over the last 34 years, and especially since I moved 3000 miles away from my family to pursue a legal career in New York City, I’ve been carried to safety many-a times by the kindness and grace of people who were once strangers and are now my chosen family. Most, but not all of them are US citizens, and each has played an integral part in helping me assimilate to the city I migrated to as an adult in search of opportunity. They’ve taken turns providing material and emotional support during moments of isolation, doubt, and political instability. And like my biological family did for me as an asthmatic kid, they have happily made accommodations to my legal disability as an adult. They understand that certain plans (like international travel) are off the table, and often take initiative to educate themselves on current affairs. While I never imagined I’d still be living in legal limbo at 35, I take solace in the fact that I’m surrounded by people who are committed to fighting with me against the evils these demonic politicians are unleashing. When I encounter an obstacle or read an update that makes my chest tighten, I close my eyes and take a breath. Dios aprieta pero no ahorca.

Living as an asthmatic and undocumented person has led me to conclude that when God slips up and squeezes a little too tightly, He/She/They often send an unexpected angel as an apology. They show up in the form of a neighbor, a friend, or a good samaritan willing to help you understand the difference between a local and express train. While I stand by my initial statement that I’m not sure where I stand on the topic of destiny, I know for certain that the nightmare we are living through, and the injustices that I and millions of others have had to endure, is surely not the end. Dios aprieta pero no ahorca and our defiant existence is proof that.

Some basics: my name is Denia (pronounced like Kenya but with a d), I recently turned 35, and I’m a capricorn sun, aquarius moon, cancer rising (in case you astro girlies are wondering, yes these placements are both a blessing and a nightmare). I’m a DACAmented Mexican eldest daughter doing my best to unlearn years of perfectionist programing while navigating the uncertainty of becoming an adult during the collapse of US empire. This blog/newsletter is my creative outlet to reflect on this experience and share learnings that are helping me get by.

On family: I have three younger brothers (2 pisces and an aries), all of whom are US citizens, and both my parents (geminis!) are now documented as well.

The painful yet comedic irony of being the only undocumented person in my family who is also an immigration attorney is never lost on me, but I’d like to think this factoid adds to my *spice.* After spending over a decade in deportation proceedings, my parents got their green card through one of my brothers when he turned 21, which marked the end of *one* long period of anguish. I remember bargaining with God during the 10+ years they were going to court and to their ICE check-ins, promising to “be good” and happy to remain undocumented in exchange for keeping my parents safe. My status we could figure out at a later date, I would tell God, but please prevent them from being deported. I had this same convo every night from 2001 - 2013 and lemme tell you, either I’m an excellent advocate, God was sick of me, or we got lucky (it was probs all three), because my family was spared from suffering a cruel reality that too many of my peers’ parents and loved ones were not. This experience, in addition to my own experience of navigating academia and the legal systems in the this country as an undocumented person, have radicalized me in ways that I go into more depth in in this post.

On career: While I am a lawyer by training—and I worked my lil tush off since I was 12 to achieve this goal—I’m currently in the middle of somewhat of a rebrand (professional pivot). In 2024, I was unexpectedly laid off. And while I’m learning that most bad bitches whom I admire (including grammy-winning queen Doechii) experience this at some point in their career, the timing and way this unfolded caused me to spiral. I talk a little bit more about the effects of this in my most recent post here. I’m doing a lot better since my menty b of 2024, however, I would generally not recommend this kind of professional detour during an authoritarian takeover.

On writing this Substack: Little Denia had to grow up fast, and while I am so grateful for the many coping mechanisms and narratives she used to help her get this far, many of those narratives and mechanisms no longer serve adult her. This space/virtual community is one she wants to tend to for little her, and for the little or adult yous who might resonate with anything I’ve shared thus far. I titled this Substack “How To Survive Your Flop Era” because I’m trying to release the shame and guilt I’ve experienced during this time of reconstruction by writing about all of the beautiful—even if sometimes painful—lessons I’ve learned. At times it feels indulgent and vapid to share all of the vulnerable and unhinged nonsense in my brain, especially when there is SO. MUCH. GOING. ON. However, when I think about the stories that have helped me during moments when my world was crumbling, the voices I most gravitated towards were those that were creating and existing in defiance of whatever horrors were persisting. I’m not saying I will be your go-to during this descent into fascism, but what I am trying to do here is practice giving myself permission to be human and write about the interpersonal and mundane. If that resonates, thank you again for being here and welcome, and if it doesn’t, that’s ok too <3

With love and LOLs,

Denia

Content warning: this post will cover suicidal ideation -no harm was committed and self-harm will not be glorified or encouraged- but ideation of death will be discussed so if you are not in a place to read about this, please feel free to skip.

I took that picture in December, before I returned to Mexico after 24 years of being unable to (a trip which will get its own post at some point). At the time, I was spiraling about how I was on the verge of turning 35, still undocumented, very (involuntarily) unemployed, and about to endure another tr*mp presidency. If that wasn’t stressful enough, I was also having to figure out where I would be living come 2025 since my original housing plans had fallen through. My life, in short, looked like the meme below:

I was crying toad fighting them thoughts every day for the first half of December, processing what a doozy 2024 was and feeling sick about the uncertainty of 2025. To quickly recap, I was unexpectedly laid off from a job at an organization that I had found a political home in. While part of me had been contemplating a career move, my v practical capricorn stellium wanted to make the pivot on my terms (aka after I had secured a new, FT job with bennies). God/the Universe, however, had other plans and forced me to reckon with my burnout and desire to retire from the legal profession before I felt ready to. What I wasn’t expecting in this process was the overwhelming grief I would experience from walking away from a dream/life I had been working towards since I was a tween.

The grief I experienced was only compounded by the shame I felt about watching my mother and brother financially struggle. As an eldest daughter, as someone who has made her parents and community her raison d’être, I felt like a failure for not having more economic and professional stability that I could leverage on their behalf. I thought, at my big age with this v adult degree, I should be in a position to not only be ok for myself, but also to have enough to support my family. I should probably also have a home, but I have neither, and the crushing sense of failure I was experiencing was leading me to fantasize about dying.

If I died, I would not have to deal with these feelings of inadequacy.

If I died, I wouldn’t have to continue bearing witness to or being complicit in the systemic failures here and abroad.

If I died, I would cease to be a burden.

If I died, all of this would stop.

Reflecting back on the thoughts being played on loop in my brain makes me want to scoop 2024 me up and hug her so tightly that she farts out these ideations. It’s still painful to remember how inconsolable I was just a few weeks ago, but I think it’s important to share because I know that I’m not alone in experiencing this overwhelm.

To give my brain a break from the incessant beatdowns I was subjecting her to, I often went for runs and took some time to observe mother nature in all her glory. On the day I snapped that picture of those ducks on Spring Lake, I sat my ass down on a wooden bench, planted my feet firmly on the muddy ground, and just let my eyes wander.

I let myself be amazed by the simplicity and consistency of the changing seasons, at the fact that every year, regardless of who’s in office or what is happening in our individual lives, the leaves on the trees change colors, wither and then die. The trees don’t fight to keep the leaves alive, they simply lean in to God’s buzzcut knowing that in a few months, they’ll be sporting a new ‘do. As I marveled at nature’s ability to give in to these transitions, I thought about how different my life would be if I too could more seamlessly coexist with change.

I want to clarify that when I talk about change, I’m not talking about systemic injustice. I don’t think man-made oppression should ever be embraced or normalized. What I am saying is that unexpected and non-consensual changes such as being fired/laid off, getting sick, etc are often changes that I have let define me, as opposed to defining *that moment* as just that, a moment in a collection of moments that is otherwise known as my life.

Part of what made last year so difficult was not the change itself, but my attitude about the change and the expectations I had set for myself about who and what I should be at 35. Having a static and inflexible idea of what success, fulfillment, or connection should look like prevented me from appreciating the life and joy that was happening to and around me. I turned the godawful lay off into a three month sabbatical where I got to rest, take art classes, and explore my sexuality. I frolicked, tried pilates, and made new friends - all incredibly fulfilling and wonderful feats that in my grief, I was unable to appreciate and celebrate.

12 year old me thought I’d be the next Sonia Sotomayor, and I’m glad I gave her the space to cry about that unfulfilled dream, because now she gets to be proud of whatever 35 year old me is gonna be. As Natasha Bedingfield once sang, the rest is still unwritten, and in the year of our lord 2025, I am pivoting away from perfection and letting myself change my mind, change my hair, and remake myself as often as I need. I hope you will join me.

with love and LOLs,

Denia

P.S.: my friends and sweet brothers were also pivotal in helping me climb out of my self-hating hole. If you or someone you love is struggling, please do them or yourselves a kindness and reach out. We need each other now more than ever <3

If you, like me, have obsessive tendencies (or aquarius/scorpio placements), then you’ve probably also been scream-singing the Wicked soundtrack for the last two weeks and consuming every piece of media deconstructing the shit out of it. If you haven’t read anything else, I encourage you to start with my bestie’s post on how one line in “Defying Gravity” reminded her of the simultaneous loneliness and power of abandoning abusive institutions in order to choose yourself. It’s beautifully written and might make you weep, but you should embrace your inner chillona and read it anyway because her post and the text conversation that preceded it inspired my own reflections here.

As a broadway peasant who watched this masterpiece for THE FIRST TIME EVER a few weeks ago, I have been reeling and ~making space~ for all the thoughts and feelings it elicited. Wicked is not only politically relevant and reflecting what we are experiencing in this country and abroad, but also psychologically and culturally moving in ways that were completely unexpected. The grip that this allegory has on me is slightly obscene and has me bowing down to the musical girlies gays and theys - y’all really popped off with this one and I’m proud to say I’m officially an ~Ozian~ (the internet told me this is what Wicked stans are called).

A natural consequence of experiencing the wonders of this creation is, of course, thinking about the themes in it and how they relate to my own struggles/life. As I’ve mentioned here before and as some of you know, I am not just a tired eldest immigrant daughter, I am an undocumented, tired, eldest immigrant daughter. If we want to get real precise, I am a DACAmented immigrant daughter, someone who has been paying the US government más o menos $500 every two years since 2012 in exchange for a work permit and temporary protection from deportation. This layer of marginalization has not only meant I live in a state of perpetual uncertainty, it has also radicalized (politicized) me in ways I might not otherwise be.

Growing up, my parents told me that I should never disclose our immigration status, lest we get expeditiously deported. They did what many of our parents do - they encouraged me to do well in school, stay out of trouble, and help them translate all the important correspondence they receive from governmental institutions like the IRS. As an obedient eldest daughter, I followed their advice and refrained from telling anyone about our lack of papers. I kept my head down, focused on getting good grades, and bewitched my teachers and peers with my dazzling intellect and slightly unhinged personality. Their directive to “be good” and focus on school was one that I took to heart and used to keep myself distracted from the always-looming possibility of family separation. I excelled, in part, because I thought that if I worked hard and followed the rules, I could earn my and my parents’ place in this country. In other words, I bought into and was invested in achieving the ~American Dream.~ Like Glinda, I was slurping up the good/wicked binary kool-aid and truly believed that by continuing to perform my worthiness for US institutions, via good deeds and grades, my family would be spared from the ugliness that is xenophobia and racism. After all, we were “good immigrants” - my parents paid their taxes, none of us had ever been arrested or charged with any crime, and I was outperforming many of my U.S. citizen classmates, surely that had to count for something!

I very quickly learned, however, that buying into a white supremacist notion of who and what is “good” would not save me or my parents. In 2010, the DREAM Act failed to pass by a couple of votes in the senate and in that same year, my parents had lost their deportation case. I remember sitting down with them to discuss what it would look like to stay behind in the US with my brothers, all of whom are U.S. citizens -to say I was unwell and that those were wretched times would be an understatement.

Facing the possibility of losing my parents to an outdated, racist, ableist system rewired my heart and brain in ways I’m still working out in therapy/journaling, and to some extent on this platform. After scrounging up money and going into debt, my parents appealed their case and eventually got their green card. Had it not been for the legal assistance they paid an exorbitant amount of money for, they would not be here. Despite being “good” and trying to do things “the right way,” my parents remained on the metaphorical chopping block for over a decade - many other families were (and are) similarly situated and were (are) deported.

This experience is what marked the beginning of my Elphaba era: a period of reckoning and divesting from the myths of meritocracy and American exceptionalism I had bought into. My Oz moment was realizing that then-president Barack Obama was deporting millions of people, including parents of friends and friends of mine, and had only agreed to announce the DACA program after months of protesting and organizing by undocumented people. He was not the great and powerful magician I thought he was. We, the most impacted and affected by these rotten institutions, were the ones with the power and our government’s ability to keep us marginalized relies on us continuing to buy into their idea of who is “good” or “bad.”

When this country talks about immigration, it inevitably devolves into a conversation about criminality. While a younger me was invested in proving myself as a good one, I did so out of a misguided belief that by distinguishing myself from the “criminals,” I would be accepted by this country. What I learned, however, is that when we criminalize something as natural as migration, we end up reinforcing racist policies. Watching Glinda sing about how “no one mourns the wicked” and how “the wicked die alone” while looking away in shame reminded me of how I felt in 2010, the year I realized that no amount of goodness could or should justify the dehumanization of an entire community.

Smarter and more thoughtful people have written at length on how the good/bad immigrant binary pushes a white supremacist, carceral agenda. There are countless studies and articles dedicated to highlighting how the increased criminalization of migration only results in higher rates of incarceration of primarily Black immigrants. When we buy into this binary, communities that are already over-policed, scrutinized and discriminated against end up bearing the brunt of our ignorance. Obsessing over fitting in to their definition of good leads us to abandoning people who may have made life decisions based on structural inequities they face.

Watching Wicked drove me to tears for multiple reasons. There is a lot of wisdom in this book-turned-musical-turned-movie. What I took away was this: the collective’s obsession with “being good” is actually harmful and antithetical to progressive change. It leads to ostracizing people who are already hurting and does not improve our individual material conditions. Wicked makes the point that these labels are social constructs put in place by corrupt leaders who are invested in dividing us for their own benefit. In a rigged system, we are all capable of being wicked; therefore, if/when we falter, don’t we want to be met with a politic of kindness and grace? What this story offers is an invitation to unsubscribe from our obsession with being good so we can instead obsess over how we can help each other get free.

With love and LOLs,

Denia

This week I’m sharing some memes (all found on Pinterest, btw) with you that have been reminding me of the *necessity* to be unpleasant, and how this kind of occasional unraveling is part of how we heal the part of ourselves that was raised to adjust or suppress our own feelings for the sake of the collective.

Being in a state of mal humor (literally translates to being “of bad humor” but the more accurate translation is being a ~cvnty cry baby~) was something I never wanted to embody. There were consequences for being designated the resident grinch and I simply had no interest in facing them. At best, you were pitied and whispered about for being unable to positive vibe whatever internal struggle you were going through and at worst, uninvited or excluded from gatherings due to your poor form. I was interested in neither of those options.

Now, however, I regularly make space (cue ariana grande and cynthia erivo crying hand holding meme) for my unpleasantness. I welcome her with store-bought baked goods because God/the Universe did not bless me with culinary/baking skills, and we gather to bitch about whatever is on our minds and scowl/hiss at joyous passersby. I love it.

Sitting with my petty, judgmental and uglier thoughts/feelings has let me access a kind of freedom and self-compassion I denied myself (and probably others, too) for a long time. It provides a kind of emotional and physical relief I didn’t know was necessary to be a full, well-rounded human and by extension, daughter/sister/friend etc. It has also been key for surviving this moment of uncertainty and transition. I hope these memes and this post can be an invitation of sorts for you too, to plan if you wish, but more realistically just enthusiastically embrace, moments of unpleasantness.

With love and LOLs,

Denia

For a while, Thanksgiving (or Thankstaking as I have come to call it) meant I could spend time with my best friend cooking up our own traditions, but this year I’m back in the Bay Area and grappling with how to make the best use of my time with my family during this genocidal holiday while we witness ongoing genocide(s) abroad.

Originally I had planned to take my 16 year-old brother and my mom to the Alcatraz Sunrise Ceremony, but as fate would have it, my tum tum had other plans and I spent the morning recovering from unexpected, watery runs (the jokes write themselves, people). So instead of waking up at 3 am to drive us all to a beautiful gathering honoring Indigenous resistance, I let my body sleep in and then went for a run/walk with my little brother. A few hours later, I found some old pictures that my mom has neatly organized into manila envelopes.

As I sifted through these gems (which, don’t worry, I will share shortly), I realized that some families have recipe books that contain the ingredients and instructions for baking up delicious treats that help make up parts of their identity. My version of a recipe book, however, is this plastic container filled with old albums, awards, and carefully labeled envelopes that contain memories and moments that, like ingredients in a recipe, when mixed together, make up who I am now - a T.E.I.D (tired, eldest, immigrant daughter).

Side note: I know I contain multitudes and am many other things too, but for the sake of ~my brand~ (ew did your eyes roll into the back of your skull just then too), focusing on that aspect of my identity for now.

As I was having this lil creative poof moment, I thought, hmm, if I were God/the Universe and for some weird reason was invited to the Cooking Network to showcase the TEID recipe, this is what I would share with viewers:

Step 1: Make her a copy & paste version of her mom with the same lethal face card and equally lethal empathy for all vulnerable creatures. Sprinkle in capricorn and aquarius placements for the plot.

Step 2: Give her brothers she would gladly sacrifice her life for. Make them all water or fire signs to emphasize parentification effect.

Step 3: Sprinkle in the spice of being an undocumented immigrant in a post-9/11 USA to ensure she is working overtime to assimilate and buy into the sham of the American Dream.

Step 4: Fold in the pressure of “being the first Latina” to accomplish x, y, z to further reinforce the idea that she must be good and outstanding in order represent the entire Latinx/Mexican community in a positive light.

Step 5: Finally, put her in the oven of “post-racial” Obama-era politics and watch her entire self-perception and worldview crumble. Voilà and congrats, you baked a TEID!

Note to viewers/readers: If she’s looking a little raggedy, don’t worry, from the ashes of her burnout will emerge a new, tepid-but-courageous creature ready to brave the unfamiliar territory of embracing her flop era. Thanks for cooking, feel free to share your own versions of this recipe <3

With love & LOLs,

Denia

This week felt like there was a year’s worth of events compressed into a mere seven days -is it just me or has the pace of life felt this way since 2020??

leaked sepia toned pic of me every day for the last 4 years

I went from curling up in my bed last Monday to let my body process (weep profusely about) the (continued/escalated) fight ahead of us, to binging The Secret of the River on Netflix and marveling at the human capacity to sometimes alchemize our suffering in service of preventing similar harms to others, to publishing my first post on here (ty again for reading and subscribing idk how to paste emojis so plz imagine a cute lil bouquet of digital flowers pour vous mes amies), to spoiling my mom after a doctor’s appointment (introducing her to Tartine and buying her a lil sweet treat), to gathering for a potluck/post-election strategy session with friends in San Francisco, to attending a friend’s beloved abuela’s funeral (which led to more contemplation of the duality of human suffering/flourishing and how oftentimes the line between those two is uncomfortably blurry for me).

*WHEW* Let’s take a collective breath with lil mister banana now.

My Aquarius moon (alien emoji goes here) will often lead me down intricate brain mazes while life is happening. Usually, I put a pin in my brain’s plan to take me down a rabbit hole and revisit the quest when inspiration strikes (aka when I have a moment to connect these seemingly unrelated life dots). But this week, I let my brain wander as I was experiencing the list of events I described. The tl;dr conclusion I arrived at after indulging my brain in its ~beautiful mind-esque~ exercise is that who I am when I am surrounded by curious, silly, and empathetic people is who I imagine I am all the time in the alternate, abolitionist universe of my dreams.

In this alternate reality, I embrace life’s contradictions and easily make friends with my fears and uncertainty (represented by the smiley hand on chin emoji). In this alternate reality, I laugh often and never feel guilty about experiencing joy cause all of the communities I care about have their needs met and are also accessing joy and pleasure frequently (exemplified by my Orangutan and Toadess friends). In this alternate reality, we are using our collective human genius for care and creation as opposed to destruction and domination (exemplified by the witchy blood moon animal dance mural). And most importantly, in this alternative reality, we have the space to constantly explore and remake ourselves many times over because there is no expectation or concept of “getting it right.” In this other world, there exists only possibility and exploration; the consequence we face for what we in this current reality understand as “failing” is continued encouragement from a gaggle of supportive pals waiting to help us clean up our last experiment and then cast new visions.

Being in community and collectively plotting/grieving has historically provided a kind of spiritual nourishment that soothes whatever heartbreak I’m nursing and fuels me for whatever horrible thing(s) lie ahead. It has provided me with a glimpse of a kinder world while also allowing me to tap into my most evolved and favorite self. The events of this week only served as a reminder of what I should continue to do in order to survive two flop eras: my own, which (per my first post and title) is me recovering from my perfectionist tendencies and internalized capitalism, and the U.S.’s flop era (its continued/zippy decline into fascism).

Bearing witness to the ongoing tragedies unfolding in the world and in our lives can be overwhelming. Nay, heartbreaking and exhausting. And while I maintain that bearing witness and taking action is important, so is grieving, resting, and spell casting (sharing good food and convos with our friends and having a laugh at the absurdity of our human existence) .

If you haven’t already imagined one of your own, I want to invite you into my alternative, abolitionist world. What would you do and who would you be in this world? Where would you spend your time and energy? If on the flip side you’ve already conjured up an alternative reality of your own, I wanna know the deets of how it works and what role you play there? Also, can we collab and merge our alternate universes?

Imagination (the verb) may have seemed silly to old, perfectionist me, but heal(ing), flop era me is prioritizing this as a practice for survival. Fellow T.E.I.Ds and allies, I’m grateful that you’re here and I’m excited to merge our sweet worlds together cause our collective liberation depends on it.

With love and LOLs,

Denia

Salvador Pérez (whom I love dearly) has a Gemini and Virgo stellium (astro girlies you get it). Despite not having a formal education, he is brilliant, goofy, and probably my biggest fan —and critic (second only to the one in my head). His love language -tied with acts of service- is pointing out the ways I am living life wrong and telling me what I could do better. A recent example of this is him telling me how much further ahead in my savings I would be (headed for early retirement) if I had put away $10 every day in a literal piggy bank since I started working (shoutout our Boomer immigrant parents and their well-intentioned but v frequently misguided financial advice <3).

Anywayzz, back to the main point of this my inaugural post and the beginning of my villain (read: recovering perfectionist/tired, eldest immigrant daughter) origin story.

During a very weepy and seemingly eternal Kindergarten homework session (which I might write about in more detail at a later time), my dad uttered a saying that still echoes in the vast and chaotic chambers of my fully developed brain. He told me “Si vas a hacer algo, hazlo bien.”

For those without knowledge of the Spanish language, that Pérez proverb roughly translates to “don’t embarrass yourself or our family by taking unnecessary Ls trying new things.”

*Cue a collective womp womp and opossum scream*

(Side note: Idk whomst to tag or credit for this wee image but hoping this acknowledgement will suffice for CYA purposes.)

While I attribute my perfectionist tendencies to a few things: 1) being a woman and eldest of four; 2) being an undocumented immigrant living in the U.S.; and 3) my Capricorn stellium, nothing gives me more pause before taking action than those words.

Don’t get me wrong though, fellow recovering/tired eldest immigrant daughters and our allies, this mindset served me for the first 28 years of life - it helped me surpass any expectations this country has of undocumented Mexican immigrants, forced me into developing a sense of humor to cope with the impossible societal and personal standards I held myself to, and led to personal and professional success beyond my parents’ wildest dreams. However, it also trapped me into believing I should avoid embarking on any new endeavors without a solid plan and expertise lest I fail and humiliate myself and my kin.

Enter: my thirties, therapy, supportive friends, and the beginning of the end as we know it. *Cue parting gloomy clouds, a thicc double rainbow, and brass band to usher in the conclusion of this post.*

My intention in starting this newsletter/blog is to take the power out of being bad (cringe) or new at something. I want to prove to myself by using this v public forum that the earth will continue spinning if I miss a comma, have a run-on sentence, misspell a word or god forbid use passive voice while I share my lil T.E.I.D. (acronym for Tired, Eldest, Immigrant Daughter) musings. I want to connect with other recovering perfectionist/T.E.I.D.s (or any variation of any of those adjectives) and metaphorically hold each other’s hands as we, together, embrace our flop eras (healing from a lifetime of constant striving for perfection and productivity).

Future posts will include: 1) a combo of corny reflections sprinkled with some LOLy memes and zingers; 2) occasional photo dumps adorned by v little context and stream of consciousness; and 3) more serious reflections of how to apply the lessons of embracing the flop in order to help each other survive this country’s zippy descent into fascism.

If you’re still here, thank you for reading until the end and welcome, I’m excited to unravel with you. If you stopped reading a long time ago, god bless and good riddance.

With love and LOLs,

Denia