I did not know I owed every person, particularly every man, the warmth and kindness I have learned to offer only when my existence feels uncompromised by my interactions.

Only when my body silently agrees.

Solely when I feel at ease.

There is something about my seriousness and the sharpness of my features that unsettles the average male.

Something in the way I have grown to enjoy the feeling of taking up space, precisely the one thing we, as women, become socialized not to indulge in.

Careful there.

You run the risk of turning into a bitch. The real kind.

And then? Who’s going to want you?

Better be the muse — an empty, approachable vessel where others pour their expectations, their hunger, their fantasies. And you, like the good, good woman you are, will help them make those dreams come true.

In the end, what else could you possibly be here for?

Of course I have been there. I have stripped myself of complexity a thousand times, all for the comfort of the male gaze.

Yet, after years of making oneself small, of silently agreeing to do what is expected, after enduring men who take what they want without warning, without explanation — time and time again — bitterness surfaces. And nothing cuts deeper than the dagger of distance, of unavailability.

But what is there left to do in a world that cannot bear the weight of our wholeness?

Some people would argue that my perception of reality was simply shaped by the magical realist Latin American literature that fills up entire bookshelves in my room, and I agree – though only partially.

It has been said before that magical realism was a response to the existence of multiple realities – within a single context – that hardly ever integrated, leaving all of us who coexist with the consequences of colonialism highly confused. In the end, that is what the so-called literary movement was all about: reconciling the multiple layers that construct our character, because if there is one thing we Latin Americans wrestle with, God knows it’s identity.

However, even though I position myself against the exoticization of my culture and the otherness with which we are usually approached by those who belong to dominant societies, I still do believe that there was definitely something more magical about my upbringing, in the most stereotypical of ways, than the childhoods of those around me raised in more thoroughly westernized environments.

In fact, one of my earliest memories is that of my grandma stopping the rain.

In Jaumave, a tiny rural area in the northeastern state of Tamaulipas, Mexico – where she is from – it is said among the locals that all firstborn females possess a supernatural ability to control a fraction of the weather. All they ought to do is whisper a few prayers and then stick a knife into the earth. It sounds impossible. And yet, I saw it happen – again and again.

Every June 14th, on the occasion of my birthday, my grandma would rise before the sun to perform her ritual. I can still picture her figure standing in the middle of the garden as she mumbled words I never fully deciphered. Her hand, gripping the knife tightly as she raised it toward the sky, only to then lightly bow as she threw her magical weapon with just enough force to make it spin in the air, a few times, before it finally struck the earth, blade-first. And it never rained, not even once. Despite it being the wettest season of the year in Mexico City, my birthdays were always sunny and warm.

Then, there were the hummingbirds.

Native to the Americas, the species had always fascinated me. Perhaps, it had to do with the way my grandma used to offer them to me – dissected, yet delicately placed inside their small nests – a gesture that, in retrospect, clearly contributed to my ongoing fascination. I innocently believed them to be nothing but peculiar gifts. I was quite used to peculiarities.

But later, I learned about their true significance – their real purpose.

At that point, I was already enrolled at university, pursuing a degree in Art History, and had begun to dive into the iconography embedded in the artistic production of post-revolutionary Mexico. There was one piece, though, that finally quenched my thirst for answers.

And I hate to bring her up – since she has fallen victim to the very things I so deeply despise when it comes to mainstream global consumption of Mexican culture – but it was Frida Kahlo, and her 1940 Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird that finally confirmed my suspicions. In the painting, Kahlo wears a painfully symbolic thorn necklace that pierces the skin around her neck, causing her to bleed, while a beautiful hummingbird hangs from it – its wings stretched wide, as if about to take flight.

Except it won't. Not anymore.

Instead, it falls still against her chest, close to the heart.

Since the times before the conquest, hummingbirds were believed to be both omens of good luck and messengers between the worlds of the dead and the living. A few centuries later, and with a little African influence, it became common practice to hunt the small creatures and turn them into rather popular love charms, meant to aid the person in need in keeping their loved one from ever leaving.

So essentially, they are love spells. To ease the longing. To make them stay.

I never asked my grandma the reason behind her bizarre offerings. I like to believe she was hoping to ensure a life abundant in romantic love for me, her only granddaughter.

I also never saw another dissected hummingbird ever again. And even though my family slowly drifted away from those cultural traces that once made my world feel so rich and enchanted, I carry those memories with tenderness, as part of my own quiet inheritance.

As for my grandma, it was only later, when she got much older and therefore overly concerned with matters of the afterlife, that she embraced a more traditionally catholic faith, and willingly severed ties with her otherwise pagan spirit.

Now, every June 14th, I sit by the window and watch the rain fall.

I must say, I do not know at what age people with generalized anxiety disorder first experience a panic attack, but my ten-year-old self certainly did not understand why the idea of going back to school the next day — on a Sunday night — felt so dreadfully unbearable.

I will admit I was not the most popular kid in class, nor was I the smartest, or prettiest, or the most talkative; however, while I clearly lacked the average social skills of people my age, my peers generally accepted me and I even belonged to a group of friends — which, although it did little to soothe my experience of alienation, would still leave most people wondering why school felt so horrifying to me. Enough to never want to return — but we will get into that later.

At that point, the only thing that seemed to matter was to find a way to never go back to the one other place on the face of the Earth — besides my home, of course — that constantly reminded me of my never ending state of abnormality.

So there I was, during one more of those sleepless nights of mine, lying flat on my bed, replaying over and over again the details of my final escape plan, or better said, my first ever attempt to get away.

The idea had come to me a few weeks earlier.

Where was I exactly going? I had absolutely no idea.

I just knew deep down inside me that I had to leave.

In the days to come, I did more of what I usually did at home. Given my high sensitivity, I paid close attention to every routine, every habit, and the meaning of every sound. Even though I spent most of my time behind closed doors, I knew, only by listening carefully, where and what my parents and brother were doing. And so, my aim was the following: one night, when the circumstances felt right, I would wait for everyone to go to bed, and when they had all finally fallen asleep, I would carefully sneak out of my house. Not without grabbing a pair of keys, naturally, as I was planning to return the next day, once the coast was clear, to take as many supplies as I could fit inside my children's backpack.

Now, only patience remained.

* * *

The sun had set early that late November afternoon. The air smelled of dryness and smoke, as it usually does, even now, during that season in Mexico City. The year was 2008. Increasing violence and an unforgettable recession were striking my home country, but I — completely oblivious to the circumstances that permeated the world around me — thought of nothing but the moment when I would finally be set free. And so, at last, the time had come.

Sunday was just a regular Sunday. We had spent the entire day at home, everyone busy with chores, as usual, but something special filled the air with excitement.

Me and my little secret.

The habitual void of anxiety that manifested in my body, as every weekend came to an end, was nowhere to be felt, and I could not have been happier. Minutes passed by with incredible ease, and only when I noticed the big, bright moon had made its way to the middle of the night sky did I truly realize what I was about to do.

At precisely 9 pm, I went to bed. Except this time, I was determined to stay awake all night — insomnia aside — to guarantee a successful breakout. The first hours were effortless. Between endless TV shows, my parents' loud screams — as they argued up the stairs — and the uncomfortable feeling of freshly washed, gritty bed sheets rubbing against my skin, all kept my five senses active enough so that tiredness would not defeat me, except it did, eventually.

I woke up to the sound of my mom getting ready for work.

She would soon come and knock on my door to wake me up. I was screwed.

Anxiety struck me the way I imagine it would feel like to get hit by a high-speed train.

I jumped to my feet. Changed in a heartbeat. Grabbed my backpack. Then rushed down the stairs as quietly as I could.

I reached out for the keys, hanging on the holder by the door. But as I gently turned the knob, I realized I was forgetting something. “Daphne!” I thought to myself, then turned and walked towards the backyard instead.

I found her sleeping peacefully on her fluffy bed in the middle of the back room — the one where my dad would usually spend hours on end listening to music. Sometimes sober, most of the time drifting somewhere between this plane and the next. I lifted her off the ground, buckled up the collar around her neck, and made sure her leash was securely attached. She had been my most faithful companion since we had adopted her a year before, and now, she was about to become my only connection to home.

I was ready.

I walked hastily towards the main entrance of the house, pressing my puppy against my beating chest. I opened it. Then, finally, closed it right behind me.

I knelt down behind a car, attempting to hide on the opposite side of the street. From afar, I could hear the sound of my mother's heels striking the wooden stairs as she carefully descended. Only a few seconds had gone by when a long, desperate scream echoed through the neighborhood.

A young woman had just stepped into her child’s room — only to find her bed completely empty.

Her daughter had vanished.

The sound of her broken voice felt like a chord tying me back to that yellow house I had grown to hate so much.

I could not do it.

I could not make her suffer.

I felt the weight of the entire world falling on my shoulders as I reluctantly walked back towards the entrance.

Little did I know I would run away from home more than once in the years to come.

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