Sí hay vida sin telecable

During my time in the Dominican Republic, me, as if I wasn't born and raised there, I have recollected so many memories of little Dominican facts that I've had very hard time figuring out, fighting with throughout my years. Living in the island can sometimes be a blessing but also a curse because, for a woman like me, who has such an imagination, I thought of having a different type of life, maybe even try to shape the conditions that could lead to a disaster with any of my plans and goals would actually require me to put way too much effort, prayers, money, and time. The unpredictable rise of prices, the blackouts, the “oh my God, there's no water today for your sector,” the bipolar weather: all of these little factors can make life very difficult for a middle-class woman who doesn't have a car, a last name to back her up, or the skin color that is preferred in a place where we're still talking about limpiar la raza.

Back in December 2023, encouraged by a man who fell in love with me in seven days, I planned to travel again for the first time in 20 years. After letting my passport rot, expired for 12 years, I decided to risk my mental health and face one of my least favorite Dominican experiences: government paperwork.

Fast forward to April 2024 (because this story isn't about him), and I found myself back in Medellín. Exploring the city, discovering new hobbies, getting familiar with co-working spaces and a different way of thinking, feeling, and existing. I was slowly becoming a regular at places where familiar faces made this foreign city feel a lot more like home.

There's a lot that I could say about this city, but I don't want to say it all in one blog post.

By the time I went back to the DR again, I had already developed such strong preferences, ideas, and habits that could have never flourished if it weren't for being in a place where I didn't have to worry so much about survival. (Te quiero, EPM.)

Living without so many everyday problems really reconfigured the way I think, the way I exist, the way I walk through the streets (y de repente ya me pongo licra porque no me acosan), and the way I enjoy a life that looks nothing like the one I had back home. This, of course, led my naturally outspoken and defiant ass to question some of the things I'd grown up hearing and accepting as facts.

1. Sí hay vida sin telecable

Sí hay vida sin playa. There's a whole version of you that can exist without having access to a Presidente, the beach hours away, and the constant blackouts. There's a whole version of you that can exist without the familiarity of everything you've ever known. And there's a version of you waiting to flourish in new environments that could probably answer questions you've always wanted to ask: Who would you be if you had more of the things you liked? Who would you be if you were treated with more respect? Who would you become if you were surrounded by people with different perspectives, creative minds, new ideas, and opportunities to explore interests?

2. ¿Qué hace una mujer de 40 años en la calle?

Vivir, gozarse su dinero, relajarse. I think one of the concepts Medellín has really helped me become familiar with is the idea of having a relaxed life; a life that doesn't require me to constantly stress over finding a partner, staying in a relationship that doesn't fulfill me, starting a family because I'm supposedly running out of time, or forcing myself to remain in places and situations where I'm simply not happy.

And even though Medellín can be very traditional in its own ways, I found myself surrounded by so many people who genuinely didn't give a fuck about what others were doing with their lives, which is very different from the way some men react to my Instagram stories whenever I announce that something exciting is happening to me. There's always someone asking, “Are you having a kid? Are you getting married? Is it a boyfriend?” As if those were the only things that could possibly fulfill a woman my age.

3. ¿Y tú no piensas tener muchachos?

No.

No a la fuerza. No por presión. No porque alguien más considere que es lo que me toca hacer con mi vida.

One of the things that has amazed me the most about living in Latin America outside the Dominican Republic is seeing people enjoying their lives with freedoms I hadn't experienced in the same way back home; not having someone constantly questioning their decisions or treating marriage and motherhood as obligations. The kinds of questions Dominicans find so fucking normal to ask other people.

And I understand, as someone who reads a lot, that these expectations come from layers of culture, politics, history, and everything in between. But it's a painful bubble to live in when you're a curious woman like me, someone who doesn't necessarily want the life she's been told she's supposed to want.

There are other choices.

4. ¿Y tú no quieres un trabajo fijo y tu casa?

Yeah, I do. But in the meantime, can I explore the possibility of reinventing myself through my talents and services while exploring the world and the relationships I can build through airplane tickets?

I'm fascinated by the possibility of learning about different cultures, their history, their slang, the layers that shape their stories, and that sense of amazement that comes with discovering something you didn't even know existed. I love the idea that there's always something else to learn, someone interesting to meet, another version of everyday life to experience. And I don't want to miss out on all of that because I'm too busy trying to build a life that looks acceptable to everyone else.

Maybe one day I'll have the house, the fixed address, and a routine that looks a little more conventional. But can we make sure it's in the right country? Right now, I'm enjoying discovering how many different ways there are to live before deciding exactly what I want mine to look like.

5. Hay que aguantar

No. No hay que aguantar absolutamente nada. Don't tell me “es tu islita.” Don't tell me “esta es tu casa.” Don't tell me you've been in that relationship for too long to leave. Don't tell me shit. I can't take it anymore with people saying shit.

I'm exhausted, and I think this is something a lot of Dominican women can relate to. We're exhausted from carrying every organizational detail, remembering everything, anticipating everyone's needs, and somehow being expected to keep doing it all without complaining. And I think one of the main reasons I wanted to write this is to remind people that, yes, there are a lot of us who are done.

You can change your job. You can change your personality. You can change countries. You can change your circle of friends. I love my grupitoS, but yes, I can change it on a whim.

I feel like my whole life I was told, “This is what you've got. This is what you're getting. Eso es lo que te toca y tú te lo comes.” That expression gives me goosebumps because of how much it represents everything I grew up feeling trapped by. Porque no era lo que me tocaba ni era lo que yo me tenía que comer. Y ahora me doy cuenta de la capacidad que tenemos todas de cambiarlo en cualquier momento.

I'm currently a little scared of my own capacity to reinvent myself and just take off whenever I decide something isn't working for me anymore. It's as if all the limits that were imposed on me when I was little, through all these expressions and expectations, have suddenly lifted. And at the weirdest time, too: at 40, when everybody seems to expect me to stop moving and settle into some stale version of who I used to be.

Pero no estoy lista para morirme y perderme en la cotidianidad.