Because that half-drunk coffee means they were here. It means someone started their day in this space, in this home, in this life with me.

And that’s what love is, isn’t it?

It’s the way someone lingers - just a little.

The way they sit at the table five minutes longer, even after the conversation has died down.

The way they hesitate in the doorway, saying “alright, I should go” but their feet don’t move.

Love is not always loud. Sometimes, it’s just a coffee cup left behind - proof that someone was here, and for a moment, they stayed.

And in the middle of it all, I still have to be a functioning adult. Answer emails. Pay bills. Keep showing up to meetings. Pretend I’m fine while I’m trying to remember who I even am now that so much has shifted. That’s the part nobody prepares you for… how you can be grieving, aching, falling apart on the inside, and still be expected to keep the outside together?

For so long I thought the hardest part of life was clinging, holding on to people who were already slipping away, routines that had already expired, versions of myself I should have released long ago. But I’ve learned the fight is actually in the letting go. Nobody tells you that letting go hurts worse.

It’s not some poetic opening of the hands, it feels more like ripping your skin away from everything you built yourself around. It’s realizing that the “you” who lived in that job, that relationship, that city, doesn’t exist anymore either.

And the truth is: holding on, even when it’s suffocating, at least gives you the illusion of control. Letting go is surrender. It’s walking straight into emptiness with nothing to hold. It’s grief disguised as progress.

So why am I writing this here, now? Honestly, because this is the first time I’ve decided to finally migrate my newsletter to Substack. For months I kept telling myself I wasn’t ready, that I didn’t have the perfect plan, that it was safer to stay where I was. But the truth is, I need a space where I can sit with you in the mess, where I can say: maybe you feel this too.

Because maybe you do. Maybe you’ve also been trying to hold yourself together while everything beneath the surface shifts. Maybe your body has also carried grief so deep it seeps into your skin. Maybe you’ve also been walking through change while life demands you still show up, put on clean clothes, and get things done.

These weeks I’ve cried more than I thought I would. But I’ve also reminded myself that every single time I’ve unclenched my fists, every single time I’ve finally released what was already gone, the pain didn’t last forever. It ripped through me, yes. It shook me, yes. But eventually, it softened.

I don’t think letting go ever gets easier. But I do think going through it knowing we’re not alone makes it more bearable.

So if you’re here, reading this, feeling raw or broken or itchy in your own skin, maybe you feel this too. Thank you for being here.

For those of us who have grown up as the eldest daughters or parentified children, the weight of responsibility is more than just a series of chores or being the “supportive one.” It’s a fundamental shift in our childhoods where we often become the caregivers, the emotional anchors, and the problem solvers long before we are ready. This experience shapes our identities, our relationships, and our mental health.

The Cut’s article suggests that the term “parentified child” is overused and questions its validity based on limited empirical research. But for many of us, this term provides a necessary framework to understand our pasts and address the lingering impacts on our present lives. It’s not about pathologizing our experiences but acknowledging them, giving voice to our silent struggles después de una vida escuchando que calladas nos vemos más bonitas.

In the Latino community, where family bonds are incredibly strong and interdependence is a cultural cornerstone, parentification often goes unnoticed or is even normalized. We take on adult responsibilities not because we choose to but because circumstances demand it. Whether it’s looking after younger siblings, managing household duties, or acting as intermediaries in our parents’ conflicts, these roles can be (and are) overwhelming.

Framing these experiences as merely character-building or even beneficial, ignores the nuances and potential harms of such early burdens. Yes, many of us develop resilience, independence, and a strong work ethic. But this often comes at the cost of our own emotional well-being and personal development.

It’s crucial to recognize that every story of parentification is unique. Some, like those Connolly interviewed in the article, may look back with a sense of accomplishment or fondness. Others, however, carry deep scars that influence their adult lives in profound ways. By diminishing the impact of parentification, we risk invalidating the experiences of those who have struggled to find their place in a world that often demands too much from them too soon.

I urge us to hold space for these diverse experiences. Let’s not dismiss the struggles of parentified children or eldest daughters as “overreactions”. Instead, let’s listen, validate, and support each other as we navigate the complexities of our shared and individual histories.

To those who have walked this path, know that your experiences are valid. Your resilience proves your strength, but it’s okay to acknowledge the pain and challenges you’ve faced. Healing, as we always say, happens poquito a poquito. Let’s continue to share our stories, break down stigmas, and create a community where every voice is heard and respected.

Thank you for being here, for reading, and for being a part of this journey. Your stories and your support make The Latina Confidential a safe space of understanding and acceptance. Gracias, gracias :)

Con amor,

Andrea

Healing doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a journey of small steps, poquito a poquito, and each step forward is a victory. As I've navigated my own path, writing has always been my sanctuary, my safe space, a place where I can express all the things that remained unspoken for too long.

This newsletter, these little essays, are my heart's offering to you. They are about our shared experiences, our collective resilience, and the individual moments that shape our understanding of what it means to be a Latina woman and to be human.

As we move through this month, I encourage you to share your own stories. Let's continue to break down the barriers that keep us from talking about mental health. Let’s create a community where no one feels alone in their struggles, where our stories bloom into understanding and acceptance, donde no nos sintamos solas.

Thank you for being here, for reading, and for being a part of this journey. Your stories, your support, and your resilience are what make The Latina Confidential community so special. Let’s keep the conversation going, not just this month but every day, because together, we can turn our struggles into sources of strength.

Con amor,

Andrea

The Latina Confidential