There are things so deeply ingrained in our collective imagination that we rarely stop to question them. One example of this is that lingerie is sexy (for whom, why, and whether it’s actually comfortable are conversations for another time).

Personally, I can’t help but think that, at some point, a couple of centuries ago, it was the symbol of liberation from corsets. Nowadays, of course, the argument that lingerie has become a means of objectifying the female body is a completely valid point.

However, while reflecting on what it is and what it’s for, a Reddit user came up with this brilliant question: What is the male equivalent?

The fact is, we’ve talked so much about female beauty that, often—and to the detriment of my heterosexual and bisexual friends—we’ve overlooked what is visually appealing in a man in certain contexts.

The responses are revealing.

“Fresh out of the shower, with wet hair and a towel tightly wrapped around his waist,” one user replied. “After 40 years of marriage, my husband still makes my heart race.”

Speak of relationship goals.

Another user shared their experience from their perspective as a man: “Wife walked into the bedroom to go to bed as I was getting up (she’s a night owl to say the least). I hadn’t done anything other than strip out of my night clothes (tee shirt and tighties) and was standing there naked. She let out a little squeal. After 38 years of marriage, I’ll take it!

Aprons (especially denim ones) with no shirt, nothing but oven mitts, suspenders, jeans, and a shirt buttoned up with the sleeves rolled up… the answers are so diverse it’s almost beautiful to read.

It turns out that, in reality, the female erotic imagination is much more diverse and creative than we thought.

I did my own research, too.

I decided that perhaps the answers from Latinas might be culturally specific. I asked my colleagues and friends, and I have to admit, they didn’t disappoint.

“Sweatpants,” a colleague told me. “There’s something about them that gives off a ‘I’m not trying too hard’ vibe, which I find really sexy.”

My best friend was more specific: “Gray sweatpants,” she said. “There’s something about that color that lets you guess what’s underneath.”

“Sleeveless T-shirts,” said another, laughing. “Even if there aren’t any muscles there.”

Although most of my friends agreed on anything related to cooking, one was very specific about the image of a sweaty man after working out. Though she also agreed on “whatever he’s wearing while he cooks,” so I think there’s something important there.

The wide gap in perceptions.

The biggest takeaway from this experiment has been the disconnect between women’s perceptions and men's beliefs about where their own appeal lies.

And yes, perhaps it has to do with so many decades of focusing sexual objectification on women. Have we forgotten to explore the erotic in men, then?

More recently, shows like “Heated Rivalry” proved that what women find sexy in a man isn’t necessarily an athletic body (though it seems to help a lot). Rather, it’s precisely that kind of sensitivity, the absence of masculine performativity as men have invented it in their own minds. It’s a man who cooks, the delicate vulnerability of a towel around his hips.

While men think their masculinity lies in the truck, the money, the inherent violence of the vernacular macho, on the other side of the spectrum, things are perceived in a radically opposite way.

What’s more, it seems that while for many men what’s sexy about a woman is her lingerie, for women it’s a web of meanings that, truth be told, they should start sharing out loud with the opposite sex.

By Joan Wallace.

Whenever we think of fashion, our minds go to the usual suspects: Giorgio Armani, Karl Lagerfeld, or Alexander McQueen. However, the Latino community has had a long tradition of fashion geniuses. Think Carolina Herrera, Oscar de la Renta, or more contemporary ones like Willy Chavarria, Alejandra Alonso Rojas, and Johanna Hernandez.

But nowadays, the U.S. fashion industry is among the most difficult to break into, especially for Latinos. That’s why Colombiamoda Miami is changing the game for designers who want to showcase their art in the American fashion scene.

Since its beginnings in Medellin in 1990, they have broken the status quo, embracing diversity and providing a platform for creatives from all walks of life, including members of the LGBTQ+ community. Designers like Esteban Cortazar and Hernan Zajar graced their runways, carving out their own paths in Latin America before entering the U.S. market, where success did not come overnight.

Years have passed, and the platform has become a front-row witness to the evolution of countless fashion businesses, helping nurture their talent, creativity, and ambition.

According to Sebastian Diez, President of Inexmoda, “The first edition of Colombiamoda Miami exceeded our expectations. Seeing brands interact with buyers, media, and industry leaders was incredibly rewarding. We came back home inspired and determined to do even more to support the international growth of Colombian fashion.”

For the last three years, the platform’s focus has been on showcasing brands and making them shine over three days, exposing their creative strength to diverse audiences in Miami’s up-and-coming arts district: Wynwood.

“We wanted to create a platform where talent, creativity, and business opportunities could come together in one of the most important gateways to the U.S. market,” Diez explained.

From Local to Global

This year, 35 brands took center stage at the event. Among them was La Oculta, which participated in last year’s edition and has successfully expanded its international reach, building a strong, growing customer base in the United States and Africa.

The brand is led by Sofía and Catalina, two Colombian creatives and cousins from the coffee-growing region of Pereira. United by a shared passion for fashion, they have transformed a family legacy—one passed down through generations—into a contemporary brand that celebrates Colombian craftsmanship and design.

Their story reflects a broader trend seen throughout the event. Many brands, including accessory labels, handbag manufacturers, and footwear brands, have leveraged this platform as a launchpad for growth. What starts as a local undertaking can quickly become an international opportunity, exposing designers to new audiences, business contacts, and markets worldwide.

How You Can Be Part Of It

For the Colombiamoda Miami exhibition, the application process begins on Colombiamoda.com. Since participation is selective, you need to submit your brand portfolio for either showroom participation or the Colombiamoda Selection pop-up. The program specializes in categories like resort wear, swimwear, casual and urban fashion, accessories, handbags, footwear, and jewelry, giving emerging and established brands an opportunity to connect with international buyers and expand their global reach.

“Our goal is to accompany brands throughout their internationalization journey, helping them develop the competitive advantages that make Colombian fashion unique and relevant around the world,” Diez shared.

Growing Beyond Borders

The platform has been an incubator for the next generation of fashion entrepreneurs and for Miami’s Latino community.

The event also contributes to the economic development of Miami’s Latino community by creating new business opportunities, strengthening trade connections, and attracting international buyers and entrepreneurs to the city.

As a link between Latin America and the United States, Miami offers the ideal platform for Colombian and Latin American brands to expand their presence, drive sales, and enter into strategic partnerships. The platform supports commerce and strengthens Miami’s role as a leading hub for Latin American entrepreneurship and creativity in the U.S.

Verónica Pérez has spent her life proving she belonged in spaces that didn’t seem to want her. She built herself into a professional footballer—84 caps for Mexico, clubs across the United States, Europe, Australia, and Saudi Arabia. But now, as she transitions out of elite sports, she’s done proving herself and decided to do something different: showing young Latina girls that they don’t have to build everything alone.

The shift hasn’t been easy. “Being in this transition out of playing, it’s different. That’s been my whole identity for so long, being a footballer, and letting that go is so, so hard,” she told FIERCE. “At the same time, it’s made me realize I’m so much more than that, and I want to share that with others.”

That’s how she began the path towards mentorship, school visits across the Bay Area and Los Angeles, and a self-published children’s book written with young girls in Latino communities in mind. She wanted to make sure the next cohort of players doesn’t have to figure out the path alone, as she did.

Built It on Her Own

To understand what Verónica is building now, you have to understand what she had to build then.

Her childhood wasn’t structured around soccer. Her parents didn’t come from a soccer background. In a way, soccer found her.

“Early on, it really was as simple as going to school and then going straight outside to play and be active,” she recalled. “We lived across from this lot. So I would cross the street, the curb was a bit high, then the sidewalk, then just a long stretch of wired fence. That became everything for me.”

The curb became a rebounder and the fence a goal. What she lacked in formal training, she made up for through repetition.

“There was no structure, no sessions, no plan…just repetition,” she said. “As I got older, some things changed. I didn’t always have a clear pathway early on, but even once I did find a pathway through club soccer, that mindset didn’t change. If anything, it grew stronger.”

Verónica stayed after practice, found extra fields, and worked on things alone that she knew she needed to improve. Soon, coaches began to notice and offered to train her.

The Absence She Lived With

When Verónica was young, her favorite athlete was Mia Hamm. Beyond that, the landscape was bare.

“Most of what I saw was men’s sports. That’s what was on TV, that’s what got covered. So even early on, you start to realize women, especially women like me, aren’t really being shown,” she explained.

This invisibility was the daily message that the game she loved might not have space for her. In fact, she didn’t see a Mexican woman playing at a high level until she was 20, when she was invited to a Mexico Women’s National Team camp.

“That was the first time I saw someone who looked like me in that space. So I was moving through all of this without really seeing myself reflected anywhere. I didn’t have a clear example to follow. I just had this feeling that I loved the game and wanted to keep going. It forced me to trust myself, to walk into spaces where I didn’t always feel as though I belonged, and figure it out as I went.”

What Young Girls Are Telling Her

Today, when Verónica enters schools and community spaces, the landscape looks different for young Latina girls. There’s social media, showcases, academies, and pathways that didn’t exist when she was their age.

However, there’s something more complicated happening in these spaces.

“What I hear from young Latina girls now is actually a mix of belief and hesitation,” she said. “On one hand, they really do believe they can go pro. They know there are pathways now, like social media, showcases, academies, and they understand there are ways to get seen that didn’t exist before.”

The hesitation, though, isn’t about capability.

“Not because they’re not capable, but because of things around them. The external factors, family expectations, financial realities, or just not always seeing themselves fully represented at the highest levels,” she explained. “I think what adults sometimes miss is that these girls are balancing both. They’re dreaming big, but they’re also carrying real-life considerations that affect how confidently they move.”

What stays with her most is what these girls are waiting for, the same thing that Verónica waited for and never fully received.

“My parents supported me, but if I’m being honest, it was still hard not hearing more encouragement or positivity along the way. I think a part of me was always waiting for someone to fully say, ‘You can do this, go after it all,’” she said. “So I had to learn how to give that to myself. I had to learn how to fight for my own dreams, even when it wasn’t being reinforced around me.”

Now, when she tells girls this—when she stands in front of them and says you don’t need permission, you don’t need a perfect situation to start—she’s speaking from experience.

That’s Why She Decided to Go One Step Further

Verónica had never planned to be an author. For decades, people had told her she should write her story—childhood friends, college teammates, people she’d mentored over the years. She ignored it. After all, she was a footballer. That was her identity. And it was enough.

Then the identity began to change. “I wanted to put something in a child’s hands that the sports world doesn’t always show,” she explained. “Yes, it’s amazing, the games, the travel, being on TV, but there’s also sacrifice, doubt, and a lot of moments where you have to choose this path over everything else. I wanted kids, especially Latina girls, to see that you can dream big, but also understand that the journey is yours. That it’s okay to be different, to be you, to be quiet, to not have a perfect path, and to still believe in yourself anyway.”

What “Safe” Actually Means

When Verónica talks about building safe spaces for girls in football, she’s being specific about what safety requires.

“To me, ‘safe’ means a space where girls feel comfortable being themselves, without constantly comparing themselves to someone else, or trying to fit into one specific mold. We’re all different, and that’s actually what makes the game special. You don’t have to look or play like anyone else to make it to the top,” she said.

Safe means freedom within structure. It means trying something that doesn’t work and knowing that failure isn’t a referendum on your worth.

But Verónica also knows the structural barriers that keep girls from ever reaching a space where they can be safe.

“A lot of girls leave the sport not because they don’t love it, but because they stop feeling safe in those ways. They feel judged, compared, or like they’re not ‘enough,’” she said. “There are also real barriers, cost, access, family responsibilities, but I think confidence and environment are just as big. If we can create spaces where they feel supported, seen, and free to grow, they’re much more likely to stay and actually reach their potential.”

And that’s precisely what she’s doing.

“The path might not be clear, but if you love it and you’re willing to keep showing up, you can create your own way. And now more than ever, there are so many avenues and platforms to get there. The opportunity is real, you just have to trust yourself enough to take advantage of it.”

When Eunisses Hernandez sits down to remove her makeup after a long day, the first question she asks herself is whether that day was as productive as possible. Whether she fought for her community or was a voice for people who don’t have one.

It’s a question that reveals everything you need to know about this 36-year-old councilmember who is running for re-election on June 2. You know from the first second she’s not chasing power and is well aware there is still so much work to do. Like many Latinas who put unrealistic pressure on themselves, Eunisses knows she can do it better now than she did four years ago when she first took office as the youngest member of the Los Angeles City Council.

In her first year, Eunisses Hernandez stood alone.

When she voted no on the city budget—the only councilmember to do so—she opposed it because the city was dedicating over 45% of general funds to the LAPD while cutting social services that her community desperately needed. She was voting no because that budget didn’t reflect the priorities of the people who elected her, and she was the only one to do so. She voted no on a decision that the mayor and her colleagues were pressuring her to reverse.

“I stood by myself,” she told FIERCE during our latest episode of Baring It All. “But the following year, when we voted on the budget, I was one of three no votes.”

And this might sound like a cliché, but it’s true, nevertheless: that’s what real leadership looks like. Not the one that relies on billionaire PACs or corporate endorsements. The kind that might cost you politically in the short term but builds the foundation for actual change. It’s the kind of leadership that requires you to stand alone until other people realize you were right all along.

Eunisses didn’t come to politics through traditional routes.

At first, Eunisses didn’t enter politics through traditional routes. She heard her mother’s voice in her head, telling her that if she could, she had to fight for her community, especially for people who don’t have a voice. She grew up in Highland Park, Los Angeles, as the daughter of Mexican immigrants. And she understood early what it means to live in a neighborhood where your family has less power, less access, and faces more barriers.

That understanding crystallized into her life’s work when she discovered the real challenges undocumented immigrants face in this city—many of them neighbors, community members, people who share her family’s experience of being marked as outsiders in their own country.

She started as a policy coordinator at the Drug Policy Alliance. She became a community organizer. She co-founded La Defensa, a women-led organization fighting to reduce incarceration in Los Angeles County. She worked on Measure J, which reallocated resources into community reinvestment and alternatives to incarceration—a measure that passed with 57% of the vote and, after legal battles, fundamentally changed how Los Angeles approaches justice.

And then, in 2022, she ran for City Council against an incumbent everyone thought would win. She beat him with 53.9% of the vote. It was a political upset. She was a threat to the status quo.

The first year in office nearly broke her.

“There were moments where I questioned whether we could move government to do the right thing,” she said. “Whether it could transform itself, stop doing the same thing over and over again, and expect different results.”

What she discovered, though, kept her going. Eunisses saw how organized people can make government do the right thing. Beyond the romanticized idea, one that, by the way, the establishment has indoctrinated us to discard, she brought that knowledge into City Hall.

She started bringing busloads of community members into City Council chambers. She co-authored the Sanctuary City ordinance that passed with unanimous support, protecting immigrants and making sure LA will not cooperate with federal immigration enforcement. She opened Northeast New Beginnings, an interim housing model that has already helped people experiencing homelessness transition into permanent housing. And led the effort to pass the strongest tenant protections in over 40 years.

But the work that she is most proud of—the work that defines what she believes real leadership looks like—is the unarmed crisis response program.

When people call 911 for help with mental health crises, behavioral health issues, or suicidal ideation, they don’t always need police. They need clinicians and peer navigators. They need people trained in trauma-informed care.

The program costs $35 per call to respond. Police cost $85.

In two years, the unarmed crisis response team has answered 20,000 calls. Less than 4% needed LAPD backup.

“These are not radical ideas,” she told FIERCE. “But doing the work to keep people alive, save us money in our ERs, and make sure we’re not spending millions on liabilities when people get killed by police.”

Just a few months ago, her colleagues voted unanimously to make this program permanent in the city of LA. Now, you can call 911 and get one of these teams, no matter where you are in the city.

She also transformed MacArthur Park—a neighborhood that people had given up on.

In one year, Eunisses reduced fatal overdoses in that area by 32%. She secured over $25 million in public and private funding to improve safety, cleanliness, and access to services. The densest neighborhood west of the Mississippi is now a place where people can survive and have a shot at dignity.

But none of this came without a cost.

“There’s a lot of personal sacrifices,” she said. “Mental health, behavioral health, physical health, time with my family, time with friends, seeing my nephews and nieces grow up, sometimes family events.”

What’s worse, she got doxxed. She had to change her phone number and implement security measures because she took a stand on protecting immigrants in a moment when the federal government was conducting raids in her district.

However, Eunisses persists in her mission.

What keeps her grounded through all of this is not the recognition or the title. It’s her family. It’s her dogs—“I go home, the first thing I do is pick up my dogs, and I just hug them, sometimes two at a time.” It’s going to senior centers, dancing with elders who are some of the city’s most vulnerable, reminding herself why she throws down every single day.

“These are people who know on SSI that if we don’t support them, they’re not gonna afford to live in this city that they’ve worked their entire lives to support and maintain,” she said.

The fact that Eunisses Hernandez is running for re-election in 2026 is not a small thing.

She is running in a moment when authoritarianism feels like it’s closing in. She is running while special interests and billionaires try to buy city council seats. She is running when every decision she makes is scrutinized, when she faces pressure from all sides, when the work feels like pushing a two-ton rock up a slippery slope.

But here’s what she knows that most politicians don’t: the power is with the people. Not the billionaires. Not the special interests. The people.

“Organized people can make the government do the right thing,” she said. “I’ve seen it happen. I’ve been a part of building that in City Hall, and I wouldn’t keep doing this if I didn’t think the system could change.”

When young people watch her, when they see her standing in chambers as the youngest, plus-size, Latina councilmember—breaking the system from the inside because “these seats were not built for us”—she wants them to know something: “You have what you need to change your community, this country, and this world already within you. The way you do it is by building with people.”

She invites them to become storytellers, artists, musicians, and organizers. She needs them to understand that everything in their life is political—their sidewalks, their streetlights, their rent, their ability to breathe clean air. And she needs them to know that they don’t have to accept the status quo.

“Politics is everything in your life,” she said. “You might say, ‘Well, I’m not into politics.’ But that’s a privilege. Every day of your life is dictated by politics, and it can either be run by people that are looking out for the best interests of you, or by people looking out for the bottom line of special interests, corporations, hotels, and billionaires.”

At a time like this, Karol G’s recognition at the American Music Awards is an unmistakable sign.

The United States of 2026 is not the same as it used to be. Today, the definition of who is “American” looms large in everyday conversations, at least for a minority that has to raise its voice louder and louder to be heard. And I’m not talking about Latinos. After all, we have more than proven that we are no longer a minority—neither demographically, culturally, nor economically. I’m talking about the other side of the aisle.

That’s why Karol G’s performance and recognition at the 2026 AMAs are so important.

Following her successful appearance as the first Latina headliner at the Coachella festival, the Colombian star performed “Ivonny Bonita” from her album Tropicoqueta on stage.

Without backup dancers, Karol G commanded the circular stage, with a sheer curtain as her only accompaniment. And while English-language headlines tried to describe her—“sensual,” “provocative,” “seductive”—Karol G was speaking to the iconic status of the Latina woman. And she forgave the journalists, since it’s well known that they don’t translate song lyrics very well. But believe me when I say, Karol G wasn’t seducing anyone. She was celebrating femininity.

Regarding the song, the singer has called it “probably the most important song on Tropicoqueta.” “The song truly expresses what I would like women to feel about themselves when they listen to each song on the album,” Karol told Rolling Stone last year. “I want them to feel confident.”

The best came later... almost.

The gala, which celebrates “American music,” couldn’t overlook Karol G’s power. Immediately after her performance, John Legend presented the superstar with the Award for Excellence as an International Artist. It was the industry’s way of recognizing her enormous global impact on music and culture.

To put things in context, the last star to receive this award was Whitney Houston in 2009. “Like millions of fans everywhere, I think the world of Karol G,” Legend remarked. “There are artists who make hits, and then there are artists who make history.”

For her part, and still in her performance costume, Karol commented that she felt honored to receive the award. She called it a “legendary moment in my career,” giving a nod to the surname of the person presenting her with the award. But more importantly, Karol said that this past year has reminded her of her life’s purpose: music.

“I’m just happy that I can perform … and I can say things in my songs and become a voice for a lot of people, a healing place, a safe place.” She continued: “I just think that my life is meaningful because of my music, and to help others through it.”

However, in what reminded many of us of the infamous red carpet moment at the 2026 Critics’ Choice Awards, Legend took the opportunity to present Karol G with another award: Best Latin Album. It was the same rushed format of recognition that almost, almost feels like “just to get it over with.”

But you know what? It doesn’t matter. What is undeniable is that the talent of Latinos, especially Latina women, cannot be overlooked.

By J Noa.

[ESPAÑOL MÁS ABAJO]

There’s a part of the music industry nobody tells you about when you’re starting out. At some point, everyone around you thinks they know exactly who you should be, how to talk, how much to share, what to show, which version of yourself “performs” best for the numbers.

And even when you don’t want to listen, eventually you do. I’ve wanted to fit in, too. I’ve tried to learn the game and play it. I let myself believe that growing meant making myself easier for people to digest.

Especially being a young, Black, Dominican woman in rap. Sometimes I feel like the industry doesn’t quite know what to do with someone like me. Or rather, it does know, but it would rather sand you down into something more comfortable, more commercial, easier to package and sell.

Over time, I’ve come to understand that so many decisions in this industry are driven by fear. Fear of disappearing. Fear of not connecting. Fear of not going viral. Fear of not making the numbers move. And when there’s that much noise around you, it gets incredibly easy to lose sight of who you actually are.

That’s when I started questioning everything. And I want to be clear: this isn’t about not wanting success. Of course, I want to sell out shows, build a long career, and take care of my family. I want music to let me live without looking over my shoulder. But going against the system doesn’t mean rejecting success. It means refusing to lose yourself chasing it.

That’s why I kept coming back to this idea of being “antisistema” (anti-establishment). Not as someone who rejects everything and wants to go to war with the world. To me, being anti-establishment means asking yourself: how much am I willing to change just to move forward?

Because that pressure is real, even if nobody says it out loud, it’s there in the obsession with going viral. It’s in softening certain things so they go down easier. It’s in turning your whole personality into content, in making decisions based on what the numbers need first and what you actually want to say second.

And yes, there were moments where I even got confused. I got too caught up in the metrics, in external validation, in trying to decode what people expected from me. But the more I tried to adapt, the further I drifted from the reason I started making music in the first place.

That’s where “ANTISISTEMA” came from.

I didn’t start rapping to become a brand. I started because I had things to say. Because I grew up watching hard things happen. Because I figured out early that sometimes the only way to truly exist is to speak loudly. Rap gave me a space where I could feel free without asking anyone’s permission. And for a while, I forgot that.

“ANTISISTEMA” is about finding my way back to that part of myself. Not some “back to my roots” narrative, but understanding that growing up also means learning to make decisions with more intention. Understanding the business without letting the business decide who you are.

I don’t want to spend my life fighting the industry. But I don’t want to spend it obeying it either. And I know a lot of young artists feel exactly the same way, even if they’re not saying it out loud.

Everything moves too fast right now. There’s constant pressure to prove yourself, to stay visible. Someone is always telling you how to talk, how to dress, what to post on social media, and what kind of song to make. And the louder the noise gets, the harder it becomes to hear yourself.

So this era doesn’t feel like rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It feels like clarity.

It’s about stopping the habit of making decisions out of fear of disappearing. It’s about recognizing that not everything that gives you exposure is actually good for you. That not every opportunity is worth it. And that not every kind of growth requires you to cut parts of yourself off.

I know I’m still learning. I’m 20 years old, and I don’t have all the answers. But here’s what I do know: I don’t want to become a hollow version of myself just because the industry finds that version easier to consume.

Maybe that makes the road slower. But I’d rather build something real. Because at the end of the day, when the numbers fade, when the trends die, when the viral moment passes, the only thing that actually remains is the authenticity of your voice.

And that’s what I’m fighting to protect.

Como artista joven, negra, dominicana y rapera, me rehúso a dejar que la industria me diga quién soy

Por J Noa

Hay una parte de la industria musical de la que nadie te habla cuando empiezas. Llega un punto en el que todo el mundo cree saber quién tú deberías ser: cómo hablar, qué tanto decir, qué enseñar, qué parte de ti “funciona” mejor para los números.

Y aunque no quieras admitirlo, eventualmente terminas escuchando. Yo también he querido encajar. También he tratado de entender el juego y jugarlo. También me dejé llevar pensando que crecer implicaba volverme más digerible para la gente.

Especialmente siendo mujer joven, negra, dominicana y rapera. A veces siento que la industria no sabe muy bien qué hacer con alguien como yo. O mejor dicho: sí sabe, pero prefiere moldearte hacia algo más cómodo, más comercial, más fácil de vender.

Con el tiempo he entendido que muchas decisiones en esta industria nacen del miedo. Miedo a desaparecer, a no conectar, a no volverte viral. Miedo a no hacer números. Y cuando hay tanto ruido a tu alrededor, es muy fácil perder de vista quién eres de verdad.

Fue entonces cuando empecé a cuestionarme muchas cosas. No se trata de no querer crecer . Claro que quiero llenar conciertos, tener una carrera larga y cuidar de mi familia. Quiero que la música me permita vivir tranquila. Sin embargo, ir en contra del sistema no implica rechazar el éxito. Es no querer perderme en el proceso.

Por eso empecé a pensar tanto en la idea de ser “antisistema”. No como alguien que rechaza todo o quiere vivir peleando con el mundo. Para mí, ser antisistema es preguntarte hasta dónde vale la pena cambiar para avanzar.

Porque esa presión existe, aunque nadie lo diga en voz alta. Está en la obsesión de volverte más viral, en suavizar ciertas cosas para que sean más consumibles. Está en convertir tu personalidad en contenido, en tomar decisiones pensando primero en los números y después en lo que de verdad quieres decir.

Y sí, hubo momentos en que hasta yo misma me confundí. Me enfoqué demasiado en las cifras, en la validación y en entender qué era lo que la gente esperaba de mí. Pero mientras más intentaba adaptarme, más me alejaba de la razón por la que empecé a hacer música.

De ahí salió “ANTISISTEMA”.

Yo no empecé a rapear para convertirme en una marca. Empecé porque tenía cosas que decir. Porque crecí viendo cosas difíciles. Porque entendí muy temprano que, a veces, la única forma de existir era hablando duro. El rap me dio un espacio en el que podía sentirme libre sin tener que pedir permiso. Y por un momento siento que me olvidé de eso.

“ANTISISTEMA” fue volver a encontrarme con esa parte de mí. Nada de “volver a mis raíces”, sino de entender que crecer también es aprender a decidir con más criterio. Entender el negocio sin dejar que el negocio decida por completo quién eres tú.

Yo no quiero vivir peleando con la industria, pero tampoco quiero vivir obedeciéndola. Y sé que muchos artistas jóvenes se sienten así, aunque no lo digan en voz alta.

Todo se mueve demasiado rápido. Hay que estar constantemente intentando demostrar algo, mantenerse visible. Siempre hay alguien diciéndote cómo deberías hablar, vestirte, qué subir a las redes, qué canción hacer. Y mientras más ruido hay, más difícil se vuelve escucharte a ti misma.

Por eso esta etapa no se siente como rebeldía por rebeldía. Se siente como claridad.

Se trata de dejar de tomar decisiones desde el miedo a desaparecer y de entender que no todo lo que te da exposición te hace bien. Que no toda oportunidad vale la pena ni todo crecimiento tiene que venir de sacrificar partes de ti.

Yo sé que todavía estoy aprendiendo. Después de todo, tengo 20 años, y no tengo todas las respuestas. Pero sí sé esto: no quiero convertirme en una persona vacía solo para que la industria me encuentre más fácil de consumir.

Y quizás eso haga el camino más lento. Pero prefiero construir algo real. Porque al final, cuando se apaguen los números, las tendencias y el momento viral, lo único que realmente queda es la autenticidad de tu voz.

Y eso es lo que estoy tratando de proteger.

By Yamily Habib.

At 25, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted out of life. The plan was to earn a Ph.D. and pursue a line of research at a university that would be intrigued by my outlandish ideas about combining art and quantum physics. I was still working six days a week on the night shift at a bar so I could pay my bills and keep studying during the day. The instinct for survival was so overwhelming that I didn’t have time to sit down and ask myself if this was still what I wanted to do. Until my visa expired, and I couldn’t renew it.

My options were very limited, so I decided to move and try to take my research to another university in another country. No one was interested in the ideas that seemed groundbreaking to me at the time. And that’s when, one night with my head in my hands over my books, it hit me: this isn’t what I want to do with my life.

I looked around and realized that all my friends were enjoying life, going from party to party, to concerts I never knew they could afford, traveling everywhere. I had become so fixated on one idea of life that I was letting my actual life pass me by. I slammed the books shut and turned off the computer and my phone. That very night, I realized I had spent my whole life chasing an idea of stability, hoping to one day have a job teaching at a university that would allow me to do what I truly loved in my free time: writing. That was it. That was what truly made me happy.

The next day, I put together a resume and a couple of clips of articles I’d written for a friend’s magazine and started looking for work as a writer. Today, thirteen years later, I’m immensely grateful for all the hardships I had to endure in those early years, writing up to eight articles a day for less than $30 just to survive. I had the opportunity to work with editors from the old school of Latin American journalism; I learned not to bury the lede, to rewrite headlines up to 50 times, to lay out a magazine, and, eventually, to coordinate an editorial team.

That’s why, when I saw Hali’s viral video where she says, “From about 26 to 32, you enter your ‘existential crisis era.’ It’s very important that you ride that crash out,” I couldn’t help but smile and say, “Absolutely.”

What so many of us experience at that age has a name: “quarter-life crisis.” And it’s one of the defining moments in any woman’s life.

It’s a real transition, not a personal failure.

According to a 2017 LinkedIn survey, 75 percent of people aged 25 to 33 have experienced a quarter-life crisis. The average age of onset is 27. And hey, this isn’t a sign that something is wrong with you. It doesn’t imply either that your experience is a collective tantrum. It’s a developmental milestone that happens when your early-life assumptions crash into reality.

A quarter-life crisis typically occurs between the ages of 20 and 30, though it can extend into the early 30s. Specialists describe it as a period of uncertainty marked by anxiety, confusion, and dissatisfaction with various aspects of life. In my experience, it’s a time of constant questioning, whether it’s your career choices, relationships, or even what you’re wearing every single day. And Hali is right. Even if you don’t recognize this as a normal part of growing up, please, listen to it.

The collision between expectation and reality.

Quarter-life crises don’t emerge from nowhere. Gabriel Kwakyi, who runs The Musing Mind, identifies several common triggers. They include misalignment between the life you imagined and the one you’re actually living. An un-integrated loss. Excessive self-expectations tied to age-based timelines (being married, buying a house, earning a certain promotion by a specific birthday). Comparisons to peers who seem to be moving ahead. Life changes that isolate you. Lack of validation from people who matter to you.

For many of us, it’s not a catastrophic event you can pinpoint. Instead, it’s the accumulation of smaller stressors that eventually demands attention, or directly crashes you out.

What it actually feels like.

The onset of a quarter-life crisis can feel like mental vertigo. You’re drawn toward questions about who you really are, stripped of the scripts you’ve been following. MindWell Psychology NYC notes that this period is marked by feelings of being stuck or directionless, even when you’ve “checked the boxes.” You might feel anxious about money, purpose, or the future. You might feel disconnected from yourself. The pressure to figure it all out right now can feel suffocating.

Kwakyi writes that “it is in times of confusion, stress, or pain, when we are knocked off balance and finally take a look around that there arises a golden opportunity for these repressed voices of our inner selves to come to the surface of our consciousness and be seen.” It’s uncomfortable and exhausting, and you experience insomnia, changes in appetite, or persistent anxiety.

Moving forward means honoring what’s shifting inside, and moving past the rubble.

The path through a quarter-life crisis isn’t linear, and it doesn’t require having all the answers. City Scape Counseling recommends starting with small, achievable goals that build momentum. Reflect on your values, relationships, and whether your current work feels purposeful. Set limits on social media, which often amplifies comparison and self-doubt.

Others recommend seeking a connection. Talk to people who’ve been through this. Find a therapist if you need one. Read. Listen to people who’ve survived their own reckoning. Kwakyi writes that “when you find the courage to listen to the voices of your deeper self and the will to evolve your perception or your life situation as a result, you will come through this experience stronger and happier.”

My recommendation? Throw your expectations out the window. As John Lennon used to say, “life is what happens when you are busy making other plans.”

What I learned in those early years of working as a writer for almost nothing was that I wasn’t a failure. I was actually being honest. I learned to stop chasing someone else’s definition of success. To align my actual life with what actually made me feel alive, not in an imagined future, but every single day.

The quarter-life crisis doesn’t last forever. But the person you become on the other side of it does.

Most kids start their day not knowing exactly what will happen. But when Bella Olson was seven, she woke up sure of one thing: she was going to write a book.

“I was especially obsessed with books and was always carrying one around with me,” she recalls. “One day while I was reading, I randomly thought, ‘What if I wrote one of these?’ So I opened my notebook and just started writing ideas down.”

The urge to create rather than just consume, to build new worlds rather than scroll through them, is rare among children today. Bella is bilingual, Brazilian-American, and already the author of her first middle-grade novel, Trapped. She acts as proof that not all children in Gen Alpha are defined via screens and shortcuts.

She started writing her book at seven and published it years later after many rewrites. The story follows Ava, a girl who learns she’s stronger than she thought and travels the world, including a visit to Rio de Janeiro, which reflects Bella’s Brazilian roots. It’s an adventurous story for readers who, like Bella, want to escape into new worlds.

“I wanted readers to feel transported into another world the same way I did when I read those books,” she says of her Harry Potter-inspired vision. “I also love stories with adventure, mystery, and characters who discover they’re stronger than they think.”

Imagination Without Limits

The beauty in Bella’s history is not necessarily that she finished a book at a young age. It’s also the way she writes and what that shows about her generation’s real desire for creativity.

“I just love how free it is,” she says of the writing process. “You can literally do whatever you want, and there are no limits. There are no exact rules for creativity. You just follow your imagination and what feels right to you.”

This way of thinking shapes everything Bella does. Besides writing Trapped, she runs a YouTube channel called Avocado Awesomeness, where she makes content that is “fun, creative, and maybe just a little bit extra.” She has performed in major theater productions like The Lion King, Descendants, and Matilda, and she can sing the entire Hamilton soundtrack without missing a word. She’s also the Chief Imagination Officer at the Salt and Light Coalition, a role in which she uses her ideas to try to change the world.

Culture, Language, and Belonging

Bella’s Brazilian-American background influences how she tells stories, even if it’s not always obvious. “Not directly in every part of the story, but definitely in some ways,” she says. “My family has always encouraged me to be creative and dream big, which helped me believe I could actually write a book.”

And you can see this in Trapped through Ava’s journey around the world, particularly to Rio de Janeiro. “Including Brazil in the story felt really special to me because it’s part of who I am!”

Just like Bella, her dog Miso is bilingual, too. It’s the kind of casual code-switching that’s central to many Latino kids’ lived experience but rarely centered in children’s literature. Her team notes that her voice has already resonated across generations and communities, with endorsements from #1 New York Times bestselling authors Katherine Applegate and Gordon Korman, as well as support from Brazilian cultural icons Carlos Saldanha and Alessandra Ambrosio.

A Message for Her Generation

One of the most important things Bella shares is what she hopes readers will get from Trapped.

“I hope they feel like they belong and know they never have to change for others,” she says. “I also hope kids feel inspired to use their imagination and be confident in who they are. One of the messages in the book is that ‘weird is the new cool,’ and I hope everyone remembers that sometimes the things that make you different are actually the coolest things about you.”

Her message, that being different is a strength and not a weakness, might be the most important thing an 11-year-old could tell her friends today.

Only over a week ago, Carmen Teresa Navas learned her son had been dead for almost a year. Ten days after she received the information, she passed away.

For more than 16 months before learning the truth, Carmen searched for her son. El País reports she was 83 when she began visiting Venezuelan prisons, hoping to find proof he was alive and that someone could tell her where he was.

On May 7, 2026, officials finally told her the truth. By that time, Víctor had been buried in a secret grave for nearly ten months, and the government had kept this hidden almost as long as Carmen had searched.

The Arrest No One Acknowledged

Víctor Hugo Quero Navas was 51 years old. The Miami Herald describes him as a merchant, while other sources call him a businessman. In early January 2025, officers from Venezuela’s military counterintelligence agency arrested him without a judicial warrant.

The charges were terrorism, conspiracy, and treason to the nation.

But according to the BBC, eyewitnesses gave a different account. They said Víctor was not carrying explosives or weapons. Instead, he had hallacas, a Venezuelan cornmeal dish, and candy. He was on his way to celebrate New Year’s Day with his mother.

What happened next was silence.

Carmen never received an official notice about the arrest. The Miami Herald reports that authorities gave her no information about where her son was, his condition, or his legal status. The system had completely hidden him.

Searching Through Closed Doors

For the next 16 months, Carmen represented a common Venezuelan tragedy: a mother waiting for news that never arrived.

According to the BBC, she visited detention centers across Caracas, including the DGCIM of Boleíta, the Helicoide, the center at La Yaguara, Zone 7 of Petare, and many times to Rodeo I, a maximum-security prison known for its harsh conditions. At each place, multiple sources say officials told her they had no record of her son, no information or confirmation he was alive, and no permission to visit.

But other inmates knew. The BBC reports that prisoners in Rodeo I told Carmen when her son arrived and later when he became ill. The government never gave her this information.

On May 4, 2026, just days before officials told her the truth, Carmen stood in Altamira Square holding a photo of her son. CNN reports she spoke out: “Give me proof of my son. Where are they holding him? If he is alive… because since they arrested him, I have not seen him a single time.”

Her desperate question challenged a system built on disappearances, where people are held in places that officially do not exist, by agencies that deny knowing them.

According to The Miami Herald, human rights organizations had already classified Víctor’s case as a possible forced disappearance. Similarly, according to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights in April, the commission had granted precautionary measures in favor of both Carmen and Víctor, determining they faced a “serious and urgent situation” that placed their “right to life, personal integrity and health at risk.”

But protective measures on paper meant little against a state system that operated in silence.

The Hidden Death

On July 15, 2025, according to the Ministry of Penitentiary Services statement, Víctor was transferred from Rodeo I to the Dr. Carlos Arvelo Military Hospital. The reason given: he was suffering from “upper gastrointestinal bleeding and acute febrile syndrome.”

Nine days later, on July 24, 2025, he died. The stated cause: “acute respiratory failure secondary to pulmonary thromboembolism”—a blood clot that had blocked his lungs.

After that, there was silence. The Miami Herald reports that authorities said they buried him on July 30 following “legal protocols,” because “no relatives formally requested visitation rights” and because Víctor had allegedly “failed to provide information about family contacts while incarcerated.”

This account could not be true. Carmen had been searching, visiting Rodeo I many times, and going to courts, security agencies, and the Ombudsman’s office. Foro Penal said the government’s explanation was not just wrong but cruel. “Víctor Quero died while he was disappeared!” Alfredo Romero, the organization’s president, wrote on social media. “The Penitentiary Ministry says he provided no family information, but his mother went many times to Rodeo I and authorities denied he was there.”

Nearly ten months went by as Carmen kept searching, not knowing her son had already been buried. The Miami Herald reports that just days before the government admitted Víctor was dead, attorneys with the Coalition for Human Rights and Democracy were still publicly demanding information about his whereabouts, unaware that officials had buried him in secret.

The Exhumation

On May 7, 2026, Carmen was called to the Ombudsman’s office. There, she learned the truth: her son had died almost a year earlier.

Carmen asked for the body to be exhumed so she could identify it herself.

On May 8, the grave was opened. According to the BBC, when Carmen saw her son’s body, she said: “How is it possible they killed him like a dog?”

According to Maryorin Méndez, the journalist who had documented Carmen’s entire search and remained by her side, Carmen was devastated by one detail in the government’s official statement: the claim that no one had searched for her son. “Of course Víctor had family,” Carmen insisted to Méndez.

Carmen wanted to give her son a proper funeral. She arranged a mass at La Candelaria Church in Caracas, a large, crowded church where she could finally honor him in public. Dozens of relatives of political prisoners gathered there to acknowledge what the government had tried to hide. Carmen seemed to find a moment of peace. “She said she felt very well, calm despite everything,” Méndez noted.

But something changed after the service ended. Telemundo reports that Carmen tried to speak for her son. “She said it was very hard, that she only asked God for strength,” Méndez recalled. “And after those hours, she faded little by little.”

That night and into Saturday, Carmen felt unwell. She said she couldn’t breathe properly. She was taken to a medical facility, but according to all reports, every test came back normal. The doctors found nothing physically wrong.

On Sunday, May 17, 2026, just 10 days after learning her son was dead, Carmen Teresa Navas died. The cause was never officially released.

Carmen had been waiting for answers about the exact date her son died and the true circumstances of his death. “She said she didn’t believe that date,” Méndez said. Carmen died still waiting for the truth.

The Weight of a Mother’s Loss

Carmen’s death ignited immediate and widespread condemnation across Venezuelan society. María Corina Machado, Venezuela’s opposition leader and the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize winner, was among the first to respond.

“Not only did a mother die; a woman who turned pain into courage and despair into protest was silenced,” Machado said. “Carmen leaves us with an immense lesson in perseverance and dignity. An 80-year-old woman faced, alone and without fear, an entire apparatus of terror that wanted to erase her son and break her family.”

According to UPI, Carmen became known as the “grandmother of Venezuela,” a symbol of the suffering faced by families of political prisoners under the state’s repressive system.

But she was not alone in her grief. According to the BBC, four other mothers whose sons were detained under similar circumstances had died in the previous six months in Venezuela without ever seeing their children freed.

Global Outcry

According to the human rights organization Provea, the cruelty for these families was even greater: “Many times, mothers don’t just have to deal with the vital needs of their sons in prison, where there isn’t even clean water to drink, and a national economy that destroys citizens’ pockets. They also face the pain of not knowing where their son or daughter is—a victim of forced disappearance, a perverse practice increasingly common among state security forces.”

On May 18, the political party Vente Venezuela, led by Machado, released a statement condemning both deaths as inseparable from state cruelty. “Not only did they kill her son, Víctor Hugo Quero, but they forced her to search for him for months, knowing he was already dead.”

According to Venezuelan government sources quoted by The Miami Herald, authorities announced a criminal investigation into the circumstances of Víctor’s death. However, human rights organizations cited in the UPI report warned that any investigation must be independent and have international oversight, not be handled by the same system that had hidden his death.

The NGO Foro Penal, which had accompanied Carmen throughout her search, released a statement to CNN emphasizing her legacy: “Her strength, dignity, and perseverance in the face of silence and uncertainty were an example of the strength of mothers and relatives of victims in Venezuela.”

Carmen had wanted one simple thing: to see her son alive, to know where he was, to be acknowledged as his mother. The government had denied her that. And in the end, it denied her even the time to grieve him properly.

All it left her was 10 days.

By Reyna Grande.

Reyna is an award-winning Mexican-American author best known for her landmark memoirs The Distance Between Us and A Dream Called Home. This time, she turns her gaze inward to explore the scars left by migration and the ongoing work of stitching herself back together. MIGRANT HEART interrogates how living between two nations, two languages, and two identities has shaped Reyna as a woman, mother, and writer. Moving from the legacy of violence in her hometown of Iguala, Mexico, to a bittersweet family vacation in Europe spent reconciling her own impoverished past with her children’s world of abundance, she uncovers startling truths about the nature of survival. It is an essential read for the seekers, the dreamers, and anyone who believes in the enduring, transformative power of finding one’s voice.

Two years after my father left for the US, my mother followed him north, leaving her three children in Mexico. I was four years old when she immigrated to California. In January 1980, a few weeks before her thirtieth birthday, my mother arrived in Los Angeles and found a job trimming threads off freshly sewn garments in LA’s Fashion District. She was one of the thousands of undocumented immigrant women working long hours for less than minimum wage, in unsafe conditions, and with no health insurance. She made fifteen cents per piece, the threads she snipped clinging to her clothes like spiderwebs. All day she stood, with scissors in hand, in an airless room full of industrial-sized sewing machines and steam presses, rushing from one garment to the next, trying not to cut her own fingers. She hated this job. She felt trapped in this LA sweatshop.

In Mexico, she’d been an Avon lady and loved la chamba, the hustle of working in sales as an entrepreneur. She enjoyed walking from house to house around the neighborhood, displaying her merchandise and catalogs, chatting with her clients. In Los Angeles, she missed the freedom of working outdoors, setting her own hours, being her own boss. Two years after she arrived, she and my father split up. My siblings and I were still waiting in Mexico to be reunited with them. When we finally crossed the border three years later to begin our new life in Los Angeles, the family we had known in Mexico was gone. My father had left my mother for another woman, and my mother, in turn, left her children for another man. She gave my father sole physical and legal custody of my two older siblings and me, keeping only the youngest, my sister Betty, who was born in the US. We never shared the same address again. I saw my mother only once or twice a month. Stepping back from our lives, she allowed my father and stepmother to raise us as they saw fit.

My siblings and I grew up in Highland Park in northeast LA, which at that time was a working-class Latino neighborhood with a serious gang problem. But we came from the poverty-stricken state of Guerrero—the second-poorest state in Mexico—so Highland Park was a huge upgrade. The dirt roads of my childhood were replaced by wide, paved streets that seemed to go on forever. Instead of shacks made of sticks and cardboard, like the one we called home in Mexico, the streets were lined with real houses made of thick stucco walls and shingled roofs. Although we were still poor by American standards—my siblings and I slept in the living room on a sofa bed, our sleep punctuated by gunshots, sirens, and the whirring of police helicopters in the distance—the solid walls of our one-bedroom duplex on Avenue 50 provided a protection we’d never known in Mexico.

My father, a maintenance worker with a third-grade education, spoke little English. We were still undocumented then, but he’d hold up our report cards and say, “I brought you here to this country so you could get an education, have careers one day, be homeowners, have money for retirement.” These were his hopes, and he demanded excellent grades and perfect attendance, threatening to send us back to Mexico otherwise. He wanted us to achieve the American Dream in all its glory and for our lives to be completely different from those we’d left behind. “We are in California now,” he’d say, “and we need to look forward, not back.”

My mother was the opposite of my father. She had humble aspirations, not lofty dreams. She was content with what little she had, as no poverty in Los Angeles could ever compare to the poverty she’d left behind. “Sometimes, we had nothing to eat but a tortilla sprinkled with salt and a jalapeño pepper to warm our bellies,” she’d say. As long as she wasn’t that poor, she was happy. For her, survival was enough. She’d never been taught to reach for more. Where did my father get his ambition? Who taught him to dream bigger? I do not know. What I do know is that he passed it on to his children. “I didn’t bring you here to be nobodies,” he often said. “We didn’t risk our lives crossing the border for you to end up as failures.”

A few years later, my mother left her factory job to become her own boss—a vendor at local open-air swap meets, like the tianguis in Mexico. Because she didn’t drive, her husband quit his ironing job, and they both worked the swap meets: in South El Monte on weekends, in San Fernando on Tuesdays, in Santa Fe Springs on Wednesdays and Fridays. Thursdays, they restocked merchandise at the wholesale shops in Downtown LA. They traded their stable, if low-paying, jobs in the garment industry for the risky business of selling Avon, Jafra, and Mary Kay products, as well as seasonal items like silk roses and teddy bears for Valentine’s Day, cheap plastic sandals in the summer, and toys at Christmastime. “Look at your mother,” my father would say with a grimace. “That’s no way to live. Peddling goods at the swap meet. No stability, no retirement, no benefits. That’s why she’s on welfare.” The more he denigrated her, the more we did, too. We worked harder at school, vowing not to follow her path. We were determined to be different, to achieve the life our father craved.

My father’s dreams, while well-intentioned, burdened his children immensely. I carried the weight of his expectations, pressured to succeed and validate his sacrifices. But the more I tried to live up to them, the more distant I grew from him and from my mother. When our mother’s (and little sister’s) absence overwhelmed us, my siblings and I would go see her. We entered another world when we visited her in Downtown LA. My mother’s neighborhood near Skid Row made us wonder if we were still in California, and not in a poverty-stricken country like the one we’d left. Walking from the bus stop on Spring Street to her house on San Pedro Street, my sister, brother, and I navigated through the unhoused people spread out on the sidewalks and avoided the sex workers standing on corners. The streets reeked of urine and marijuana. Piles of trash crunched under our feet. Plastic bags of all colors floated around us in the wind like miniature parachutes. We hurried to our mother’s one-room studio, squeezing amid the chaotic jumble of furniture and stacks of boxes where she stored her belongings. Her home, with a shared bathroom and kitchen on that floor, was infested with roaches and mice and smelled like skunk.

My mother supplemented her earnings by recycling cans and bottles. She would dig into trash with bare hands, leaving bags of her haul in the corner of her studio apartment—feeding roaches and stinking up the place—until she had enough to make a trip to the recycling center. Our visits to her home were awkward. Our history of separations, of her abandonment, hung over us. She treated us as visitors, not her children, and seemed incapable of giving us the motherly love and warmth we craved. We were always the ones to visit her, and if she ever missed us, she never said so. It was as if we didn’t exist, unless we came knocking on her door. When she complained about the pitiful sales at the swap meet, we would suggest that she learn to drive. “That way you can drive yourself, and your husband can get a stable job. Then at least one of you could have a steady income.” The suggestion terrified her. “¿Y si me mato?” And if I kill myself? She insisted that her husband keep driving her to the swap meet.

As my siblings and I came of age in California, we assimilated more and more into US American culture. We spoke English fluently. We listened to Madonna and Depeche Mode; dressed up as superheroes, ghosts, and Greek goddesses on Halloween. We began to replace telenovelas with shows like Small Wonder and Married . . .with Children. My sister did modern dance. I joined the marching band, performing multiple times in Disneyland’s Christmas Fantasy Parade and the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade. The more education we received in US schools, the less we understood our mother. We internalized the disdain US American society feels for immigrants like her—the undereducated, non-English-speaking, low-skilled immigrant worker living on the margins of society. We began to reject her and all she represented. Our US Americanized eyes saw her as a symbol of everything we desperately wanted to escape. So, consciously and unconsciously, through the years, we excluded our mother from our conversations and, eventually, our US American lives.

At twenty, I was accepted to UC Santa Cruz. Though it was only six hours from Los Angeles, my move north deepened the gulf between my mother’s world and mine. Arriving in Santa Cruz, I felt I had gained access to a better version of California—a fairy-tale version. Santa Cruz was an idyllic place, the campus nestled in a towering redwood forest overlooking Monterey Bay. Every morning, the world’s tallest trees were the first thing I saw. Walking to classes, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine needles, I’d pass deer foraging for breakfast and banana slugs crawling on the forest floor carpeted with layers of fallen leaves and moss. Standing in the dappled sunlight filtering through the redwoods, I’d gaze at the sparkling blue waters of Monterey Bay, stretching before me like a shimmering dream, the cool, salty breeze kissing my face, and feel incredibly lucky. My world was expanding, and my place in it changed. In Santa Cruz, I made my first vegetarian and vegan friends. I’d never heard words like tofu, soy, and wheat germ, nor eaten alfalfa sprouts and split pea soup. There, I also made my first openly gay, lesbian, and bisexual friends.

For the first time, I found myself a minority student in my classes. When I shared these experiences with my siblings, they thought I had moved to another country, not just another part of the state. To my mother, Santa Cruz sounded like another planet. Everyone in Santa Cruz was into environmental protection. When it rained, students danced naked in the forest, pretending to be fairies worshiping the redwoods. They tied themselves to trees and protested when the campus administrators announced the construction of new buildings. We were all supposed to protect the environment, and recycling was a must. Even our food waste was recyclable—destined for something called compost. It was then I discovered my mother was engaged in environmentalism without knowing it, rescuing cans and bottles destined for landfills to pay her rent.

I dreaded anyone asking about my parents’ occupations. “My dad is a maintenance and construction worker. He’s good with his hands.” But when it came to my mother, the words shamefully spilled. “She recycles cans and sells stuff at the swap meet,” I’d mumble. Thinking I could hear people’s unspoken judgment, I would quickly add, “I don’t know why she can’t get a real job.” Her poverty embarrassed me. Even in the “richest country in the world,” poverty clung to my mother like the threads from those factory garments.

My double major in creative writing and film & video exposed me to different kinds of storytelling. In one film class, we were assigned to create a five-minute documentary on a subject we wanted to explore. The biggest enigma of my life was my absent mother. So I chose to tell her story. I returned to my mother’s California with a borrowed camera to spend a weekend documenting her life as a swap meet vendor. We woke up before dawn and loaded the minivan. The rear seats had been removed to make room for the merchandise. In the early morning stillness, as my stepfather drove us to the swap meet, I sat on the floor, the worn carpet scratchy beneath me, wedged between crates of Avon deodorant and boxes of hair polish, the camera pointed at my mother while I prayed we didn’t get into an accident.

The sun had yet to rise, but the Starlite Swap Meet was bustling, the crisp morning breeze reeking of exhaust from all the vendors driving in. The air vibrated with the sounds of heavy metal pipes as they assembled their booths, thick plastic tarps thrown over with a whoosh and tied down with bungee cords and straps. As the sun rose over the vendors’ canopies, I watched, through the camera lens, as my mother arranged her merchandise, finding just the right way to display it. I saw how much she enjoyed talking to the customers, getting their attention with small talk, having them smell a perfume or sample the silkiness of a hand lotion.

With the camera aimed at her, I witnessed my mother’s love of selling. It didn’t matter that she was on her feet all day, skipping meals or forgoing a trip to the restroom to avoid missing a sale. I felt bad for her when people walked away without purchasing anything. I watched her face beam with pride and joy when she made a sale, and, the bills clutched in her hand, she’d make the sign of the cross and thank God for helping her. After a long day, with little energy left, we took down the canopy, folded the tarps, disassembled the frame, packed the unsold merchandise back into the van, and left the now-empty lot. As dusk settled over Los Angeles, with the silhouettes of palm trees in the distance, we drove back to her tiny apartment, the van a little less full of boxes, me a little less suffocated, a little less ignorant. For the first time in a long time, my disconnect with my mother eased a bit. After dinner that night, she put on her favorite music, and I filmed her dancing to “Juana La Cubana,” a cumbia she loved because, though not Cuban, her name is Juana. The song spoke to her Mexican heart. She felt it was written just for her.

In the editing room at UCSC, I watched my mother’s face flash across the computer screen again and again, radiant with the fervent prayer of thanks after a sale. I felt closer to her than I ever had. An invisible thread stretched between us, a silent connection despite the distance. A reminder of the bond we’d once shared, before a border separated us. I had to screen my film in class. I was nervous, ashamed even, to show such an intimate portrait of my mother. What would the students and teacher say? What would they think of her? Of me? As they watched my mother dancing in her tiny apartment, I wondered if they saw what I had seen for the first time through the camera—not a woman beaten down by poverty, but one whose humble aspirations filled her with gratitude for a life that was a tiny bit better than the one she’d left behind. I realized then that through my film, I had brought my mother, with all her resilience and humildad, into my California. This five-minute film wasn’t enough to halt the widening cultural divide between us, between my US Americanized self and the woman who still carried Mexico in her heart, but for that one moment, it had.

When I graduated from UCSC, I returned to Los Angeles because, to my dismay, I couldn’t afford to live in this better California. Santa Cruz was home to wealthy retirees and workers from Silicon Valley. Few good jobs were available. To supplement my student grants and loans, I had painted dorms as part of the student paint crew on campus and sold hot dogs and ice cream cones on the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Even though I had enjoyed those jobs, I didn’t want to continue working there after graduation. I didn’t cross the border to end up selling hot dogs for a living, I told myself, channeling my father. No way. I thought of my father’s dreams for us—“Education, careers, houses, retirement, that’s what I want for you!” Someday, somehow, I was determined to have those things, to make him proud. Someday, somehow, I was determined to fit into a narrative of success that, even if it didn’t always align with my own desires or identity, would be better than the life I’d had as a child. So I said goodbye to the redwoods and deer, the wharf and boardwalk, the surfers and hippies, to try my luck in the city where I had come of age.

Though difficult, I eventually accomplished all my father had dreamed for me. I had a college degree and a promising writing career. I became a homeowner at twenty-six and began putting away money for retirement. All these things have given me access to yet a different California. My writing opened the door to the literary community of Los Angeles and beyond. I read from my work at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books—the country’s largest book festival—which I’d never even heard of until I was in my mid-twenties. I read at the Mark Taper Auditorium at the beautiful Los Angeles Central Library, a mere ten minutes from my mother’s home but in the nice part of downtown, which I hadn’t known existed. I read at Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena; Skylight Books in Los Feliz; Barnes & Noble in Santa Monica. I presented my work in California cities I’d never heard of: Mission Viejo, Santa Barbara, Delano, Blythe, Camarillo, Idyllwild, Point Reyes, Santa Maria, Arcata, Carlsbad, Merced, Chico, Half Moon Bay, Red Bluff, San Jacinto, Calexico, Manteca, Taft.

While I crisscrossed the state reading from my books, my mother moved to Pico Union, one of the last remaining low-income communities adjacent to a gentrified Downtown LA. She lived less than a mile from a four-star hotel, L.A. Live, and the convention center. The house where she rented a room was across from a freeway rampart, the air thick with exhaust fumes and the endless drone of passing vehicles. Underneath the concrete overpass was a houseless encampment. Makeshift tents huddled together, their occupants shuffling among piles of discarded belongings, filling gallons of water from the fire hydrant on the corner.

Due to declining sales during the recession, my mother gave up the swap meets and began recycling cardboard full-time in addition to cans and bottles. Downtown businesses called her to pick up their cardboard at the end of the day. With a knife in hand, she’d slit the packing tape, carefully flatten boxes, then heave box after box into the back of the van. When it was full, with the metallic smell of processed cardboard clinging to her, she and her husband would drive to a recycling center on Slauson Avenue in South Central to sell the cardboard, getting forty to fifty dollars for their effort. “That’s not even minimum wage,” I once pointed out. She shrugged, answering, “In Mexico, I would be making five dollars a day.” I’d shake my head in disapproval and, as I did every month, give her money for rent. Even after all these years, though I understood her to an extent, I still struggled to accept my mother’s out-of-touch relationship with the standards of US society. I still couldn’t grasp how she found solace in merely making do. It has been hard for me to stop seeing her approach to life solely through the lens of US American ambition, always striving for more.

Whenever I found the time to visit my mother, she’d tell me stories about her world. She told me about a restaurant parking lot in Pico-Union where buses take locals to a casino on the way to Palm Springs for as little as twenty dollars round-trip. She’d go whenever she could afford a day off. She told me about the friends she’d made—like a housewife who snuck out when her husband left for work, took the bus to gamble the grocery money, and made it back before he returned. She told me about her friend’s son, a drag queen who danced at the local nightclubs doing tributes to Selena. How one night, his friend, another drag queen, had been lured into a restroom, doused in gasoline, and set on fire.

She told me about the time she and her husband gave her brother-in-law a ride to LAX, leaving their rickety truck on the curb. They went inside to help him with his luggage and use the restroom, and when they came out fifteen minutes later, their truck was surrounded by six police vehicles. They arrested her husband for driving without a license, towed the truck, and left her stranded at the airport. “I didn’t know you couldn’t leave your car at the curb,” she said. There was no point in my mentioning the repeated announcements outside the terminal telling you not to leave unattended vehicles. The announcements were in English.

When asked to be the keynote speaker at an annual education conference in San Jose with over seven thousand educators, I asked my mother to come with me to help with my daughter, who was a toddler at the time. The conference provided a booth at the exhibit hall where I spent all day hustling to sell and sign my books and talking to educators about my writing and experiences as an immigrant child in California public schools. I introduced my mother to every teacher who came to my booth. “Mucho gusto, Señora Juana, you must be so proud of your daughter,” they’d say, shaking her hand. At one point, my daughter got antsy, and I asked my mother to take her around the exhibit hall, where vendors sold teacher supplies and materials. Half an hour later, I saw my mother walking down the aisle toward me, a bulging plastic bag in one hand and my daughter’s hand in the other. “What do you have there?” I asked her, wondering if vendors had given her samples. She opened the bag, revealing the many cans and bottles. Her face beamed with joy when she said, “The trash bins are full of these! I couldn’t fit them all in. I need another bag!” I thought of all those teachers I had introduced her to, mortified at what they must have thought seeing their keynote speaker’s mother digging through the trash. Would they be judging me when I delivered my keynote later that evening? I wanted to run out of the convention center in shame, but then I realized that while I had wanted to bring my mother into my world, she had also brought her world into mine. I told myself that if I wanted to have any kind of relationship with her, I needed to accept her as she was, to respect her ability to find contentment in a life that had offered her so little, and to live by her own standards. To not ask for more.

My ambition and determination have given me upward mobility and material success but have also led me to feel ashamed of my mother for not achieving enough. I have struggled to do what Prisca Dorcas Mojica Rodríguez encourages us Brown girls to do: “. . . you must hold your parents in your heart as you dismantle the systems that have kept people like them down.” My mother is in her seventies now, her life reduced to a one-room studio in Pico-Union. She still doesn’t speak English or drive. After a stroke left her partially paralyzed, she can no longer rummage through trash cans or go around town picking up cardboard. On Mother’s Day 2025, on her way back from gambling at the casino, her bus crashed into a stalled SUV on the freeway. The driver of the SUV died. My mother, along with thirty-one passengers, was injured. She needed major knee surgery and months of physical therapy. She will likely be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. My siblings and I have given her thirteen grandchildren—all born in California. Unlike us, our US-born children are all native English speakers. Most of them can’t even speak Spanish, can’t speak to their Abuela Juana without the help of Google Translate. Sadly, the distance isn’t just about language. The emotional distance she kept from us in childhood is even wider with her grandchildren. They’ve missed out on the warmth of a close grandmother-grandchild bond with her. Through the years, the threads of our relationship have continued to fray, and though my siblings and I do our best to help our mother, whatever bond still connects us always feels fragile. I’ve struggled to be grateful for the little she gave me, to accept that her own unresolved traumas limited her, and to stop resenting being left to do some of her emotional work for her. It’s a jumble of conflicting emotions: anger I was given so little, sadness for the mother I never had, and guilt from knowing she was also a victim of her own past; yet I continue to judge her.

When I feel the distance between us is insurmountable, I think of the time I followed her around with a camera, filming a day in the life of Juana, my mother, the stranger. I look at her in her wheelchair, and in my mind she’s dancing to “Juana La Cubana,” twirling around and around. I will always be on the outside looking in, seeing her through a camera lens in a way I never will with my naked eye.

Debi Nova is the most successful artist in Costa Rica’s history. She’s a Grammy nominee and the first from her country to reach that stage. Still, when you talk to her, she focuses more on what music has let her experience than on her achievements.

She started out singing backup for Gandhi, Costa Rica’s biggest rock band. Later, she performed with Ricky Martin, Sergio Mendes, and even Britney Spears. She worked with the Black Eyed Peas, wrote songs for RBD, and explored many genres and countries. Along the way, she realized something the industry still finds hard to grasp: there’s a difference between being visible and truly being seen.

For Debi Nova, understanding that difference has shaped her six albums, her Grammy nomination, and her choice not to follow every trend. Most importantly, it’s helped her answer a question many women in Latin music face: how to stay true to yourself when the industry pulls you in different directions.

For Debi Nova, songwriting is how she gets through tough times.

Debi Nova wrote her first song at fourteen. She didn’t realize then that songwriting would become something that saved her life, not just once, but many times.

“Songwriting has always been my way of processing emotions and experiences,” she says. “I think that moment marked the beginning of something I’ve relied on over and over again.”

In a fast-moving industry that always wants something new, songwriting became her anchor.

Her most recent album, Todo Puede Convertirse en Canción (Everything Can Become a Song), clearly shows this belief. She turned toxic and even painful experiences—professional betrayals and personal wounds—into music, transforming them in the process. When asked if songwriting helped her survive those chapters, understand them, or reclaim them. “It’s been that way since I was a teenager. I feel incredibly grateful for that.”

Staying grounded takes work.

Debi Nova has learned that resilience doesn’t look like one big moment of success. For her, it’s something she works on every day, and it’s what has kept her going for over twenty years.

“There are so many external expectations, comparisons, and pressures that can easily pull you away from your center,” she explains. “The most important thing I’ve learned is that I have to be good with myself.”

She says being good with herself means taking care of her mental health, her body, and her relationships. It also means treating her time as precious and not comparing her journey to anyone else’s.

“When I’m able to put myself first and not compare my path to anyone else’s, it becomes much easier to navigate the harder days,” she says. “And the only way I can access that clearly is by staying open—open-minded, open-hearted—and committed to living in a healthy, balanced way.”

A career focused on depth.

Over the years, Latin pop has changed quickly. Trends come and go, and record labels often focus on what’s popular online.

Despite all this, Debi Nova has chosen to go deeper with her music.

She has built a career—six albums, a growing audience, international recognition—by following the songs that felt honest to her. Not the songs that would chart fastest, but the ones that she felt in her body and resonated through her whole being.

“It’s been a challenging path, choosing to build a career without chasing the latest trends,” she acknowledges. “But at the same time, I feel incredibly grateful because I have built a career. I’ve been able to make six albums and grow an audience song by song, through music that is truly mine.”

This choice is almost radical. While the industry values speed, she chose to focus on lasting work. Instead of always changing, she decided to stay true to herself.

“At this point, what fulfills me the most isn’t what I get in return, it’s the act of creating itself,” she says. “The doing. That’s the prize. I get to make music, and that, to me, is amazing.”

What she learns from young artists

Working with others helps Debi Nova learn more about herself and those around her.

Recently, she worked with young artists like Kendall Peña and J Noa on deluxe versions of her album. She was surprised to see that they were still finding their own voices and figuring out their paths in music.

“There’s something so refreshing and inspiring about that,” she says. “Getting to witness how they interpret the songs, what they connect to, what they bring into them… it really expands the music.”

It’s not just about what she gives them. It’s also about what they give back to her.

Kendall Peña made “Noticia de Ayer” his own. J Noa brought a verse to “Épico” that was “incredibly poignant and powerful,” expanding the song’s message about women’s empowerment.

“In a way, they helped me say things that maybe I couldn’t have said alone, or at least not in the same way,” Debi Nova explains.

The challenge of visibility

Debi Nova is the most successful Costa Rican artist in history. She is also, by her own assessment, still not fully seen by the industry.

When she looks at Latin music today, she sees more women creating unique and interesting work from all over the region. But she also notices that the industry still doesn’t fully support or make space for all that diversity.

“I see more women doing interesting, unique work from all across the region,” she says. “But it still feels like that diversity doesn’t fully have a place within the industry.”

You can see this in the awards. She points out that the Grammys usually nominate more women and show more diversity than the Latin music awards. This shows that the Latin music industry still hasn’t made enough room for women in all their complexity.

“The Latin music industry is still a bit behind when it comes to expanding opportunities for women,” she states. “It often feels like Latina artists are still expected to fit into certain stereotypes—both in the kind of music they make and in how they present themselves.”

“I think there’s still a lot of work to be done—both as an industry and as a collective—to create more visibility for Latina artists in the full scope of who they are and what they bring.”

How long can a song last

For Debi Nova, the unavoidable truth is: a song can last much longer than any trend. Sometimes, a song even outlives the moment that inspired it.s or chart positions. It is something you feel and, therefore, your audience feels, too.

“There’s something magical that happens when I sing a song that I truly feel in my heart,” she says. “It’s something that resonates through my whole body. That’s what I respond to.”

She has built her career by believing in that magic. She trusts that being authentic lasts longer than chasing trends. She believes that an audience will slowly grow around music that comes from the heart, not from a formula.

And honestly, that belief has paid off. Debi Nova can look back and know she’s built something real that makes her happy.

A song made from truth never really fades. It waits for the next person who needs it. For Debi Nova, that’s the real reward.

If you haven’t heard the phrase “hot divorcee summer” floating around the internet yet, get ready, because it’s about to be everywhere. And honestly? We’re obsessed.

This isn’t about actually getting divorced (though if you are, congrats on your freedom, bestie). This is about energy. A vibe. A whole spiritual movement wrapped in wide-brimmed hats, flowing linen, and the kind of “I don’t care what you think” confidence that somehow makes you look the best you’ve ever looked.

Think Jennifer Coolidge in The White Lotus. Think Goldie Hawn in Overboard and First Wives Club. Think Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun. Think Joan Collins casually declaring “M&S rosé season” like she didn’t just marry her fifth husband. That’s hot divorcee energy.

But wait—what exactly IS hot divorcee summer?

According to everyone talking about it right now (The Guardian, Metro, TikTok, your aunt who finally left her husband), hot divorcee summer is the antidote to last year’s “brat summer.” Where brat was disheveled, messy, “I woke up in yesterday’s makeup” energy, divorcee is the complete opposite: high glam, high effort, and high conviction that you look absolutely stunning.

“Divorcee is high glam. It’s wide-brimmed hats and full-length skirts,” explained comedian Tatty Macleod (who, for the record, has a very supportive boyfriend—and yes, you don’t have to be actually divorced for this). “It’s for the people who were always 40-year-old women in waiting, who were never ‘girls’.”

The core of hot divorcee energy? Unvarnished devil-may-care spirit. Not in a reckless way. In a way that says: I spent enough time worrying about what other people thought, and now I’m just going to wear the outfit I want, say no to things that don’t serve me, and look absolutely fabulous while doing it.

The glow-up is real.

One of the wildest things about hot divorcee summer is that people actually look noticeably better. Like, botox-level better—except it’s not botox; it’s just happiness, Korean skincare, and finally, finally prioritizing yourself.

It’s the intentional self-care, the therapy, the breaking free from drudgery that men don’t typically experience. It’s knowing what you want, probably for the first time in your adult life. And—here’s the thing nobody talks about—it’s menopause energy. Literally, when you’re in perimenopause or through menopause, you stop having the “caring hormones,” which means you stop giving a rat’s ass what people think. And that’s when the magic happens.

The aesthetic: Big energy, bigger hats.

So how do you actually dress like a hot divorcee? The silhouette is what fashion people are calling the “lampshade”—a statement hat (and we mean statement—go big or go home) paired with something melodramatic and floor-length. Think melodramatic, think theatrical, think “I’m about to get on a yacht, and everyone should know it.”

The key is this: it’s not minimizing. You’re not trying to disappear. You’re trying to take up space and look incredible while doing it.

The pieces you need:

Polka dots are having a MOMENT. Google searches for polka dots hit an all-time high in 2026, and honestly, it makes sense. There’s something inherently playful and retro about them—very divorcee. Whether it’s a polka dot sundress for the day or a polka dot tankini for the beach, commit to the print.

Lace, lace, and more lace. This is the divorcee fabric of the year. Lace midi skirts hit a 10-year high, and for good reason. There’s something inherently glamorous about lace—it says “I’m making an effort,” which is literally the whole point. Layer a lace camisole, or go full divorcee and wear a lace midi skirt solo.

Capris and cropped pants. If polka dots are the print of summer, capris are the silhouette. They’re retro, they’re a tiny bit cheeky, and they work with literally everything. The divorcee vibe? Pair them with a silk camisole, and you’re already there.

The shoes, because, of course:

Forget sky-high heels that make you miserable. Hot divorcee summer is about comfort, meeting glamour. Ballet flats are at a five-year high (and they’re cute), but kitten heels are absolutely having their moment—especially in mesh. If you want to feel elegant without sacrificing your feet, kitten heels are your new best friend.

Mary Jane shoes are also trending, and they have serious divorcee energy—a little bit schoolgirl, a little bit “I do what I want.”

The accessories:

This is where hot divorcee summer gets really fun. You’re going for a statement, not subtle.

Statement jewelry: Chunky necklaces hit an all-time high in search interest. Cuff bracelets, too. The divorcee doesn’t do delicate—she does bold. Stack your bangles, wear multiple rings, let people hear you coming from three blocks away.

Bags: Barrel bags and east-west bags are trending hard (90s energy, very divorcee). If you want something that screams “I have somewhere fabulous to be,” a barrel bag or east-west style is it.

Silk scarves: Searches for silk scarves hit an all-time high. A silk scarf tied around your neck, in your hair, or around your waist is peak divorcee. It’s elegant, it’s effortless, and it says, “I have traveled extensively and also have excellent taste.”

Hair and makeup, the vibe builders:

Modern shag haircuts and Italian bobs are trending (short, a little bit messy, very chic). Birkin bangs are a breakout search—because apparently, we’re all channeling quiet luxury meets vintage cinema.

For makeup, we’re talking bright—blue mascara, coral lipstick, polka dot nails (yes, really). The divorcee doesn’t do neutral and boring. She does color, texture, and “what if I just felt like wearing bright blue mascara to the grocery store?”

French tips are at an all-time high, by the way. Almond shape, orange accents—these tiny decisions are adding up to a whole mood.

The hat, obviously:

We’ve been dancing around this, but let’s be clear: you need a hat. A big one. Wide-brimmed. The bigger, the better. It can be straw, it can be felt, it can be whatever—but it needs to be LARGE. This is not a subtle accessory. This is a statement. This is you telling the world: “I’m about to have an excellent summer and I’m going to look good while doing it.”

The most important thing? You don’t have to be divorced.

Hot divorcee summer is an energy. Tatty Macleod has a boyfriend. The people wearing the big hats? Some are divorced, some are married, some are single, some are “introducing my husband as my first husband” as a bit. The point isn’t your marital status. The point is the vibe.

Remember: you’re done apologizing. You’re done shrinking. You’re done wearing beige because you thought it was “safe.” You’re wearing the outfit. You’re getting the good underwear. You’re ordering the wine. You’re taking up space and looking fabulous while you do it.

And that, amiga, is hot divorcee summer.

So go forth. Get the hat, the lace, AND the silk scarf. And remember: you don’t have to justify it to anyone, ever.

Welcome to summer 2026. We’re so glad you’re here.

Barbara Rivas knows that having a seat at the table lasts only if you understand how it was made. And if you need to, you should be ready to build your own.

When it comes to putting her rise in the music industry into words, she hesitates to describe it as overcoming adversity, even though she faced a lot of it. Instead, she describes what she saw growing up. She watched her mother leave everything behind and work hard, carrying a burden she shouldn’t have had to bear alone. That experience shaped her drive and her refusal to accept ‘no’ as an answer. Most importantly, it gave her a strong belief that representation is more than just being seen. It’s about having access, making decisions, and shaping what comes next for future generations.

Today, Barbara Rivas is Head of Label & Artist Development at Mr.305 Records, has been recognized on Billboard’s Women in Music 2026 list, and was recently named Assistant Vice Chair of Events at Women in Music Miami. But her titles don’t capture everything. They don’t show how she noticed the lack of women like her in decision-making rooms, or what she chose to do about it.

Before the industry, there was her mother’s sacrifice.

Before anything else, Barbara Rivas was an immigrant girl who watched her mother start over and rebuild their life from scratch.

“Seeing her strength, her sacrifices, and the weight she carried shaped me early on—it became the fuel behind my drive,” she told me. “I wasn’t just chasing my dreams for myself, but also with the intention of one day easing that burden for her.”

Like many Latinas, for her, ambition wasn’t just about personal success. It was about gratitude and the deep motivation that comes from seeing someone you love work so hard.

Barbara didn’t have a clear path into the music industry, but she knew what she wouldn’t accept: staying small, waiting for permission, or letting the industry or the world limit her.

“I didn’t grow up seeing many women who looked like me in positions of power, especially in music,” she said. “That absence teaches you something early: representation isn’t just about being seen, it’s about having access and being part of the decision-making.”

In other words, she wanted more than just a seat at the table. She wanted to know how the table was built from the start.

Broadcasting taught her to read people and systems.

Before becoming an executive, Barbara Rivas worked as an on-air talent. She spent years at Spanish Broadcasting System, Mega TV, and Rapetón, interviewing artists, building audiences, and learning how the industry worked from the outside. This taught her a valuable skill: listening to what people say and what they don’t say. me that this industry is both real and constructed at the same time,” she explained. “It made me a sharper listener—not just hearing what someone is saying, but understanding what they’re navigating behind the scenes.”

After all, when you interview artists night after night, you begin to notice what’s behind their public image. You learn to wait for those honest moments that reveal something real, and those moments are what make stories meaningful to audiences. She soon understood people don’t tune in for music alone but for connection. And when they do, they choose to stay because they feel seen by the person talking to them.

“Your personality, paired with great music and intentional programming, is what turns listeners into loyal fans,” she said. “That’s something I carry into artist development now.”

From covering artists to developing them: A different kind of listening.

On the surface, the move from on-air talent to executive might seem like a natural step, but Barbara Rivas calls it a major change. She took what she learned from watching performers and used it to help artists build lasting careers, especially in an industry that changes fast. “Balancing identity, expectations, and emotion in real time,” she said. “So when I’m building with an artist, I’m not only thinking about what will work commercially. I’m thinking about what feels authentic to them, what they can sustain long-term, and how to protect their vulnerability while still allowing them to grow.”

Her approach has influenced her work with artists at Mr.305 Records. She played a key role in Omar Courtz’s global success. His debut album, PRIMERA MUSA, passed 1 billion streams and went multi-platinum. His next album, POR SI MAÑANA NO ESTOY, debuted at #1 on Spotify’s Top Albums Debut Global chart and reached over 100 million streams in its first week.

With Vikina, she pushed for Latin EDM to be recognized in the industry, which helped create a new category at the Latin GRAMMY Awards. She also worked with IAmChino to shape key creative moments that drove growth.

The barriers that don’t announce themselves.

Whenever people talk about women in music leadership, the topic of barriers always comes up. Barbara Rivas knows this well and addresses it directly.

“A lot of the barriers aren’t loud—they’re structural,” she said. “They show up in who gets trusted with bigger budgets, who gets second chances, who gets listened to the first time they speak.”

For Latinas, there’s an extra challenge. You have to prove yourself in places where people already doubt you. You try to be assertive without being called difficult, and strategic without being questioned. You show your skills but still try to be agreeable. You take up space, but not too much.

“Those things don’t always get named, but they shape how women move in these spaces every day,” she said.

Beyond these daily challenges, there’s a bigger issue: the lack of mentorship and sponsorship. It’s one thing to get into the room, but it’s another to have people there to support your growth when you’re not present. It takes someone with influence to say, “This woman should be in the next room too.”

Barbara Rivas has become aware of that gap and of her responsibility to close it.

For Barbara Rivas, burnout is not a personality flaw. It’s a design flaw.

For a long time, Barbara kept up with the industry's fast pace: always working, always pushing, and never stopping to ask whether it was sustainable. She noticed burnout, anxiety, and disconnection in herself and others. That’s the cost of ambition without healthy boundaries.

“This industry moves fast, it’s high-pressure, and it doesn’t always encourage you to slow down or check in with yourself,” she said. “For a long time, I operated in that rhythm. But I started to see the cost of that.”

She reached a breaking point, both personally and by seeing it happen to others. This changed how she saw her own responsibility.

This experience led her to start The Blissful Project, a wellness initiative that promotes balance, sustainability, and mental health in the music and entertainment industry.

“Wellness stopped being something optional and became something necessary to sustain any kind of long-term career or impact,” she explained. “I wanted to create space for conversations we weren’t having—especially within the Latino and music community—around mental, physical, and spiritual health. Because if we’re building careers but losing ourselves in the process, then what are we actually building?”

She is building her legacy in places most people never see.

Barbara Rivas knows exactly what she wants her legacy to be, and it’s not about chart positions or streaming numbers. Instead, she measures it by how people feel when they’re with her.

“I want artists to feel like they were seen fully—not just for what they could produce, but for who they are,” she said. “That they were supported in building something sustainable, not just something momentary.”

Her vision is even clearer for the women who will follow her.

“I hope it feels a little less isolating,” she said. “That there are more examples, more access, and more pathways than there were before.”

She keeps her promise by joining mentorship programs with The Recording Academy and GRAMMY U, connecting women with leaders and helping them find new opportunities. She becomes the person she once needed—someone with power who opens doors for others.

More than one of us has lived with a diagnosis of polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), and if you grew up in Latin America, you were likely diagnosed at a very young age.

It’s a condition that affects one in eight women—about 170 million women worldwide. While symptoms vary, the most common include irregular or absent periods, increased facial and body hair, severe acne, weight gain, and dark skin patches.

Why the name was misleading

However, when male doctors first named the condition in 1935, they were convinced it was a disease of the ovaries. Over the years, research revealed that PCOS is actually caused by a hormonal imbalance, particularly involving insulin, which controls how the body manages all its fuels (sugars, proteins, and fats), and androgen hormones.

As The Guardian explained, the imbalance of these hormones affects multiple body systems, including metabolic, mental, skin, and reproductive health, as well as the risk of diabetes and heart disease.

Now, endocrinologists worldwide want to set the record straight.

The push to rename PCOS

For several years, researchers have debated renaming the condition. In 2012, a forum on PCOS organized by the U.S. National Institutes of Health recommended changing the name.

In a guidance document, the group explained that the name was “inaccurate” because it did not fully reflect the condition’s metabolic and endocrine characteristics, including the likelihood that it affects men as well.

Now, it’s official. The condition will henceforth be called Polyendocrine Metabolic Ovarian Syndrome (PMOS)

The name change was published in The Lancet and announced at the European Congress of Endocrinology in Prague, following 14 years of collaboration between international societies and patient groups across six continents.

The renaming was spearheaded by endocrinologist Prof. Helena Teede, director of Melbourne’s Monash Center for Health Research and Implementation. For too long, experts, including Teede, say the misleading nature of the term “polycystic” in PCOS contributed to delayed diagnosis and inadequate medical care.

Announcing the new name at the congress, Teede said the term PCOS didn’t capture the “multi-system burden that people with this condition have suffered,” and that it “directs attention to only one organ.”

PMOS is hoped to better reflect the condition’s complex nature, which affects not only the reproductive system in people assigned female at birth but also metabolism and the risk of diabetes and cardiovascular disease.

As Teede told The Guardian, the new name “moves away from the incorrect focus on cysts … to recognizing this is a much broader condition.” The effects of PMOS on the body “are virtually all endocrine—hormonal,” she says.

How patients drove the change

Teede says patients instigated the name change.

“They wanted it fixed,” she says. “They know how much they have suffered because of the name, and they were really passionate. And that was what enabled us to pursue it.”

Many people go undiagnosed or are misdiagnosed, while many more are dissatisfied with their medical care and suffer severe stigma, the authors write. Even so, the effort to revise the term for the condition has stalled and restarted many times over the past two decades.

It’s taken more than a decade to bring it about, Teede says, adding: “The efforts here are unprecedented. We want this to stick and not just be an idea from a few experts, as it used to be. We used to never consider patient perspectives when we changed the name.”

Now the researchers hope that the name change will spur new studies on the syndrome, including its genetic components and potential treatments.

Teede explains that they “had to get everybody on board.” This meant significant involvement from 56 medical and patient societies in every region across all relevant disciplines, because so many different groups care for the condition.

Teede says: “We needed all those groups involved because we want every one of those groups and societies to own it in all regions of the world, and to actually drive the change. Otherwise, they don’t get the benefit.”

“While ‘reproductive’ may be a more accurate term to cover all the abnormalities in the ovary, as well as in the endometrium and in reproductive health during pregnancy, it also carries a very significant stigma,” Teede said.

What PCOS patients need to know

“There are parts of the world where labeling a woman as having a reproductive condition is directly linked to her value and worth in society, and the cultural implications were enormous,” Teede added.

“For that reason, we spent a great deal of time on this, both in the surveys and in the workshops. The agreed terms were polyendocrine, metabolic, and ovarian. The next step was to bring them together under a new name.”

“There was a lot of underlying concern about changing the name of the condition because it has been so neglected, so poorly diagnosed, so poorly researched, and so underfunded for so long that, quite rightly, patients and consumers were quite up in arms about the fact that they just wanted to get this right,” Teede says.

After a transition period, the new name will be fully implemented in the next update to international guidelines for managing the condition, to be published in 2028.

When she immigrated at thirteen, she barely spoke English. Her quietness could have meant many things: homesickness, fear, or just being tired from translating everything. When she started at The Young Women’s Leadership School of East Harlem and joined the L.O.V.E. Mentoring Program as a freshman, she had no idea what to expect. She only knew she felt overwhelmed.

Years later, she stood at the podium during L.O.V.E.’s 10th Anniversary Gala and shared what it meant to see herself in her mentors. These were women who had also immigrated and understood what it was like to move between home and school. They had gone to college and showed her it was possible. She spoke about feeling comfortable, supported, and understood, words that might sound like a cliché unless you remember what it’s like to be thirteen, far from home, and unsure if you belong.

All of this was possible because of Claudia Espinosa.

In 2009, Espinosa worked as an intake counselor at a suicide prevention program. The job was tough. She met young Latinas, brilliant, capable, and full of potential, who struggled with depression and thoughts of suicide. But underneath these struggles, she noticed something else: a gap. It wasn’t a lack of intelligence or ambition, but a lack of role models. There weren’t enough people who looked like them, who had lived similar lives, and who could say, “I made it. You can too.”

So she got to work. She started L.O.V.E. as a pilot project at New York University in spring 2012. By fall, the program found a home at The Young Women’s Leadership School of East Harlem, where it could truly reach young women and offer them mentorship.

As Claudia shared, she recognized the importance of building strong support and empowerment systems, particularly through meaningful relationships with relatable role models.

Fourteen years later, L.O.V.E. has brought in over 300 volunteer mentors, many of whom are Latina and first-generation college students from New York City. The program has reached over 100 schools across Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Manhattan. It has helped more than 4,000 young women, including that once-shy 13-year-old who left the program confident and believing her future had no limits.

What sets L.O.V.E. apart and makes it effective is that it is built on shared lived experiences.

“Shared experiences foster relatability, helping build connection, belonging, and mutual support,” Claudia explains.

The program creates an inclusive environment where young women form meaningful relationships with mentors who understand their lived experiences. Many mentors share similar backgrounds, including being first-generation college students from New York City, which allows for deeper connections and ensures that guidance is both relevant and impactful.

“For young women who may lack role models in higher education or professional spaces, these relationships can be transformative,” Claudia notes. “Seeing mentors who reflect their identities, experiences, and aspirations empowers mentees to believe in their own potential and envision a path forward.”

This is the quiet revolution behind the work. It’s not just telling young women they can succeed. It’s showing them women who already have.

The mentee who immigrated at thirteen went on to study Business Administration at Baruch College. She returned to share her story. For a girl in the audience, this example might’ve spoken volumes.

At L.O.V.E., every week counts. Students take part in social-emotional learning, health education, and mentorship. They discuss college access and financial aid, learn about healthy relationships and personal safety, and visit colleges. Through all of this, something changes for them.

“We know this work is effective when students begin to shift how they see themselves,” Claudia says. “They move from uncertainty to clarity, from hesitation to active participation, and from limited expectations to a stronger belief in their ability to succeed.”

Alumni say it themselves: they started college knowing how to set goals. They found a sense of community. They realized their futures weren’t just about luck—they were possible, achievable, and truly theirs.

But the reality for organizations doing important work is that they need more support.

The young women L.O.V.E. supports face many challenges. And what they need is real, ongoing, and culturally responsive care.

Schools are asking L.O.V.E. to expand. It has become clear that more girls and more communities need this support. But growing the program requires funding.

“To deepen our impact in New York City and beyond, L.O.V.E. requires sustained investment, increased visibility, and strategic partnerships,” Claudia says. They need funding to grow, but they also need people to understand their work so that new opportunities—like partnerships, funders, and communities—can help bring this model to more places.

Because the girl who immigrated at thirteen, the one who became a keynote speaker, is not just a statistic. She is someone who was seen and believed in. Someone who was told by a mentor who shared her background that her future was worth investing in.

That’s what L.O.V.E. does. And New York City, and honestly, the whole world, needs more programs like this.

For years, Lena Dardelet has moved through Caribbean rhythms, Dominican folk traditions, the romantization of love á la française, and singer-songwriter intimacy. She is trilingual, a multi-instrumentalist, and has performed alongside everyone from Vicente García to iLe to Monsieur Periné. And through it all, she has antagonized the narrative that artistry should fold.

Instead, she has become an artist who loves her home while also being implicated in the forces changing it.

Now, with her recent work—songs and collaborations that move from Dominican folk tribute to bachata celebration to urban Latin experimentation, culminating in the seductive collaboration “Y Qué” with Martox—Lena is ready to show the world the product of her personal journey.

While her music has always been personal, and yes, political, she insists, without apology, that these things belong together.

The Thing About Coming From Everywhere.

Lena Dardelet was born into a peculiar position: rooted in privilege but also shaped by movement. French and Dominican. A child of multiple worlds who grew up in a beach town, which is to say, in a place constantly remade by forces larger than herself.

Her family’s background—connected to development—means she has spent her life aware of the cost of her own existence. The beaches she loves and the communities she comes from exist, in part, because of decisions her family made. Decisions that displaced people, that concentrated wealth, that transformed ecosystems.

She does not look away from this.

“Coming to terms with how different things can coexist,” she says carefully, “means understanding that I am on the privileged side of things and that as an adult I can choose to do things differently and take responsibility to care and do better.”

Far from self-flagellation, Lena’s reflection focuses on seeing one’s own implication without using that clarity as an excuse to do nothing.

And it has shaped not just her politics but her sound. The sensuality of her music—the way rhythm moves through her work—comes from the Caribbean. But the critical distance she maintains, the refusal to make that sensuality into eroticized fantasy, comes from knowing that the Caribbean is not a performative scenario. Nor is her experience.

“I do think inevitably art becomes referential and representative to the audience that consumes it. I think it all comes down to understanding the layers and complexities of these cultures and how places evolve with time. Although I have voiced some of the problems, I definitely tend to romanticize island life in my music,” she admits, “because I think that is part of the beauty as well. The Caribbean is often depicted and consumed as fantasy, and in my art, I like to include its various colors and try to see things as they are instead of categorizing them as ‘good’ or ‘bad’.”

What Stays Constant.

If you listen to Lena’s catalog—and it is genuinely wide and diverse—there is a paradox at its center.

“I believe the fusion of Dominican rhythms and/or narrative always resurfaces in some way,” she says. “The simplicity in my writing. And the overall sensual sound.”

The simplicity she mentions is its own kind of sophistication. Listen to her early work—Caja sin Oxígeno, for example—and you hear the beating heart of Latin Pop, a massive genre that has survived decades.

Then, you listen to her most recent work, “PA’ QUE BAILEMOS,” and you feel DR pouring through her veins.

“I think my eclectic music invites people to embrace the richness and layers of Caribbean music,” she explains, “as well as invites people to see the world with more softness, while also [embracing] the strength of a feminine perspective.

The Personal and the Political Cannot Be Separated.

Lena has been outspoken about catcalling, environmental destruction, and gentrification. She has used her voice to advocate for women’s rights, to challenge violence, and to insist that the world can be different from what it is.

However, she lives inside a contradiction: she is also implicated in the very systems she critiques. Her family built the infrastructure that transformed the Dominican coast. Ergo, she grew up with the privilege that the development she now questions brought.

“What my music is arguing for right now,” she says, “is inviting people to embrace the richness and layers of Caribbean music.”

What An Artist Becomes When She Refuses to Simplify Herself.

When asked about where her writing comes from, Lena describes an interwoven process.

“I feel like each song begins from a different place. Every creative experience pulls from different threads. Sometimes it’s a melody. Sometimes it’s lyrics. Sometimes it’s a concept. In terms of making sense of myself, I try to be true to where I’m at and what moves me in that present moment.”

Her collaboration with Martox on “Y Qué” is a good example. With the softness of the morning sea, the song calls for the simplicity of life, the one that comes after the storm. It is her saying: I can be soft and strong. I can love this place and question it at the same time. As they sing, no es tan complicado.

This is what happens when an artist turns her gaze inward and outward at the same time. When she understands that the only way to honor a place is to see it clearly.

By Nicole Young.

If you’ve ever scrolled through social media and been drawn to someone who is truly themselves, you might have come across Chiquis. The Latin Grammy-winning singer is not only a force in music, but she’s also making waves in media with her honest podcast, Chiquis and Chill, where she talks openly and values vulnerability.

For Chiquis, speaking her truth is more than just part of her job—it’s her purpose. “I knew from a very young age that if I spoke up sooner rather than later, even if it was scary, I would not only start healing myself, but I could also give voice to those who perhaps stay silent out of fear of being judged,” she told FIERCE. “I believe there is power in vulnerability, so I decided to lead by example.” She leads by sharing her story on air, on stage, and in the lives of women who admire her.

How Chiquis is Breaking Through the Noise

Growing up in the spotlight isn’t easy. Chiquis faced fame early on, along with the kind of attention that can make anyone doubt themselves. But these challenges made her stronger. “Growing up in the public eye definitely wasn’t easy, but I’m grateful because it gave me thick skin,” she shares. “It molded me into the woman I am today. It gave me the opportunity to see the world for what it is, but also what it could be if I turned those painful moments into power. Power to make the world a better place, even if it is one heart at a time.”

Being watched all the time isn’t easy. One of Chiquis’ biggest challenges was finding her own identity while growing up as the daughter of the famous Jenni Rivera. “For a long time, I didn’t mind being in her shadow, but then came a time when I realized I was doing myself a disservice,” Chiquis admits. “I had to show up for myself and ignite my own light. I had to show myself that I was enough, that I was worthy of my own success, even if the world said I wasn’t.” Now, she stands confidently in her own spotlight.

Owning Your Power

Chiquis didn’t become confident overnight. Her journey took heartbreak, reflection, and time. “I learned about self-love in a very painful way,” she explains. “I had to go through a lot of heartbreak before realizing that I had to love myself first, and feel worthy of love, before expecting to be loved the way I needed and deserved.” She now shares this lesson with her listeners and fans, especially women of color who often face outside expectations.

And it’s not just about surviving the industry. For Chiquis, it’s not just about surviving in the industry—it’s about thriving while staying true to herself. She uses meditation, breathwork, prayer, and even time in the sun to keep her peace. “I learned a while back that what helps me is revolving all I do around my God, not the other way around. God is my center, and the only thing that gives me true peace,” she says. “At the end of the day, true peace comes from truly trusting and surrendering to the higher power. It reminds me, and gives me the strength to show up and show off as my authentic self.”

She began taking creative control of her music, and she truly began to feel the kind of confidence that can’t be shaken. “This newfound confidence of being unapologetically myself didn’t come to me until I learned to love and accept myself. To own it! To step into my power,” she says, referencing her empowering track Porque Soy Abeja Reina, a turning point in her career and self-perception. “Since then, it’s only gotten better.”

Chiquis has also changed how she sees her body and self-image. She no longer chases perfection and now accepts herself fully. “Each scar, every stretch mark, the dimples on my thighs make me, me. They tell a story. My story. I don’t need to be perfect to be loved and accepted,” she says. In a culture that pressures women to fit one ideal, her message is both rebellious and freeing.

Challenging Latina Norms

Chiquis’s podcast stands out for its challenge to cultural expectations. As a Latina, she knows the saying, “calladita te miras más bonita.” She chooses to turn that idea around. “Now that we’re aware of this, and the power behind using our voices—not only for our healing but for the healing of all women—we’re craving these types of conversations, even if they may be uncomfortable,” she explains. “Women were never meant to be under anyone’s shoe. We were always meant to rise, to uplift one another, to make some people uncomfortable because we’re so comfortable with who we are. The time has come, and it will only get better.”

Her words encourage Latinas to take up space in their lives and careers. Chiquis also shares practical advice for working in tough industries. “Read your contracts. Find yourself a good attorney who will explain the ins and outs of the industry. Protect your art! Find a good team and be sure to be in the driver’s seat of your career,” she advises. Most importantly: “Don’t waste your time comparing yourself, your music, your physique, your progress, or process with anyone else’s. Focus on yourself and bettering your craft as much as possible.”

The Myth of Strong Women

Chiquis also wants to challenge the idea that strong women end up alone. “People always say strong, independent, outspoken women will end up alone, but that couldn’t be further from the truth,” she says. “A true, strong woman knows when to be soft and with whom. We just need to feel safe, and when we do, life is more colorful in every aspect of our lives.” Strength and love can go together—they are about balance and choice.

Community, Healing, and Growth: Chiquis’s Journey

Even confident women need a community, and Chiquis is no different. “Community is everything! If I didn’t have community, I would feel alone,” she says. Having other women who are open, share their stories, and are real has helped her heal. That’s a big reason why Chiquis and Chill connects with so many. The podcast is about creating a space where women feel seen, heard, and understood.

When life feels tough, Chiquis has her own way to reset. She might dance under the sun or moon, play her favorite songs, or work up a sweat with green tea nearby. These routines help her reconnect with her power, confidence, and joy. “I feel so good and sexy after a nice sweat, but of course music is always involved!” she laughs.

Honoring Legacy While Carving Your Own Path

It hasn’t been easy for Chiquis to balance her mother Jenni Rivera’s legacy with her own path. She admits that trying to meet everyone’s expectations was overwhelming. Her turning point came when she let go and trusted her instincts. “Once I did things from the right place, everything started falling into place, slowly but surely. Soon enough, little by little, I started coming into my own. It takes time to unlearn certain things,” she reflects.

Chiquis offers advice to young women of color starting out: “Protect your art, read your contracts, ask questions, and never feel you’re too good to learn something new. Focus on yourself and your craft.” Her guidance comes from her own experiences, both the hard times and the victories, and from her willingness to speak up.

Defining Success on Her Own Terms

One thing that stands out about Chiquis is her redefinition of success. She no longer sees it as just material achievements or constant hustle. “Now I know the true meaning of success. In my opinion, success is having peace of mind. Success is not only about discovering the true meaning of life, but living it,” she says. “Sleeping with a light heart at night. Trusting that no matter what, all will work out the way it’s meant to.”

For Chiquis, real success means helping others, giving her loved ones new chances and experiences, and always being true to herself.

A Message to the Next Generation

With her podcast, music, and public presence, Chiquis is creating a guide for Latina women who want to lead with confidence. “More than anything, if Chiquis got through it, so can I,” she says with her usual mix of sass and honesty. “Keep God first, and you will always find a solution, because when you’re rooted in light, darkness could never win. You got this! We got this! We got each other.”

Chiquis wants every woman, especially women of color, to embrace their power without apology. “There is nothing more beautiful than women celebrating each other. I love it so much,” she says. Her life and work show that when women support each other, they break barriers, challenge old ideas, and create new legacies.

Unapologetic, Unfiltered, Unstoppable

Chiquis is more than a singer, daughter, or media figure—she’s a force. She’s learned that being open is a strength, that confidence takes work, and that real success is about peace, purpose, and love. By sharing her story and owning her power, she shows others how to thrive, not just survive. For the next generation of Latina women, her example is the guide they’ve been waiting for. If Chiquis can rise and shine on her own terms, so can we all.

The 2026 Met Gala gave us sculptural gowns, anatomical references, couture-level drama, and enough “Fashion Is Art” discourse to keep the group chats alive for weeks.

But one of the night’s most quietly striking moments of beauty did not scream for attention. It elegantly braided itself into the conversation.

Argentinian-Spanish model, entrepreneur, influencer, and social media personality Georgina Rodríguez arrived on the red carpet, bringing Old World glamour we loved. It gave angelic energy with enough undone texture to keep it from feeling precious.

And according to celebrity hairstylist Glen Oropeza, that was exactly the point.

Oropeza, who created Rodríguez’s Met Gala hair, spoke with FIERCE about the references, last-minute creative pivots, and exact products behind the style. The final result looked effortless, but the process involved secrecy, trust, Monica Bellucci references, and the secret touch: Latino taste.

Georgina Rodríguez’s Met Gala hair started with secrecy and a romantic pivot.

For Oropeza, a night like the Met Gala carries unique pressure because the image travels instantly and lasts forever.

Working with Rodríguez and designer Ludovic de Saint Sernin made the process even more layered.

“Working with a new client and designer always makes the Met feel different,” Oropeza told us. “With Georgina and Ludovic, everything was secretive — I didn’t see the dress until a couple of days before.”

That secrecy shaped the creative process from the start. The hair could not overpower the look, but it also could not fade into the background. It had to speak the same language as the styling without competing for attention.

“We tried a few directions but ultimately landed on something more romantic,” Oropeza said. “We channeled angelic energy, inspired by references like the Virgin of Fátima, and I wanted the look to feel soft, feminine, and elevated the moment she stepped out.”

The Met Gala look honored Georgina Rodríguez’s confidence.

Many celebrity beauty moments aim to create a persona through hair and makeup.

Oropeza saw the opposite with Rodríguez.

“One thing I’ve learned about Georgina is that her confidence leads the process,” he said. “She doesn’t rely on hair or makeup to feel her best — she already has it.”

That explains why the final look did not need to be aggressively styled to feel expensive.

“When she has a strong point of view, it translates into the final look,” Oropeza said. “This was about honoring her natural glamour while leaning into something softer and more romantic than people might expect.”

Monica Bellucci helped shape Georgina Rodríguez’s Met Gala hair.

“At first, I was only given one reference: ‘Monica Bellucci,’” Oropeza said.

That makes sense. Bellucci has long represented a very specific kind of beauty: sensual, cinematic, womanly, polished, and never overly eager. For Rodríguez, who carries a similar public aura of glamour and self-possession, the reference gave Oropeza a strong foundation.

“From there, I built a mood board around iconic Monica hairstyles since she defines a timeless European standard of beauty that Georgina also embodies,” he said.

Before the Met Gala, Oropeza and Rodríguez tested a few directions during a shoot. These included “a middle-parted bun and a classic blowout,” he said, and they initially believed they had found the final look.

Then the day of the event arrived. And Rodríguez changed the direction.

“But on the day, Georgina wanted to pivot to something more relaxed and romantic,” Oropeza said. “We collaborated in real time, pulling references and refining the idea, and landed on a soft, loose braid.”

That kind of pivot can look casual from the outside. In reality, it requires what great red carpet beauty depends on: trust. The stylist must quickly understand the client’s instinct, translate it into a durable look, and ensure it photographs well from every angle under unforgiving lighting.

“That flexibility and trust in the moment is something people don’t always see behind the scenes,” Oropeza said.

Georgina Rodríguez’s braid worked because it looked lived-in, not careless.

The success of this look came down to balance.

Too polished, the braid could have looked bridal or overly literal against the angelic reference. Too undone, it could have clashed with the scale of the Met Gala. Oropeza landed in the middle: textured, soft, loose, but still intentional.

The braid needed movement but not frizz. Volume but not heaviness. Pieces pulled out around the face, but not random flyaways. Texture that felt romantic rather than messy, and a structure that could last all night without making the hair stiff.

That is the hidden labor Latinos know well. When a look appears effortless, someone worked hard to make it that way.

The exact products behind Georgina Rodríguez’s Met Gala hair

Oropeza built the look with Nexxus products designed to prep, smooth, texturize, and hold the final shape.

He began with damp hair, using Nexxus Keraphix Liquid Crystallizer Treatment and Nexxus MVP Styler Multitasking Cream. Then he used the Sutra Infrared Blow Dryer to rough-dry the roots and mid-lengths.

Then came the smoothing step.

Oropeza used the Arachne ShineBoost brush with the Sutra dryer to create a smooth finish, then switched to the Sutra Interchangeable Spring Curler Set with the one-inch barrel to add texture and volume.

That curl foundation mattered because the braid needed body before it could look soft. A loose braid without prep falls flat quickly. A loose braid with texture has shape, dimension, and movement.

To build airy texture, Oropeza applied Nexxus Air Shape Workable Hold Texture Spray, adding volume, texture, and hold. Then he created the soft, loose braid, pulled out loose pieces, curled them, and finished with Nexxus Maximum Finish Firm Hold Hairspray.

How to get Georgina Rodríguez’s Met Gala hair at home

The key is to avoid making the braid too perfect.

Start with damp hair and apply a repairing treatment or smoothing cream through the lengths to achieve a polished, not dry texture. Rough-dry the roots first, then smooth the hair with a brush and dryer to create a clean base.

Next, use a one-inch curling iron or wand to add loose bends through the hair. The goal is not perfect curls but movement. The braid needs something to hold onto, and those bends help create the soft, romantic texture that made Rodríguez’s look work.

After curling, apply workable texture spray for volume and grip. Then create a loose braid, keeping tension relaxed. Pull out a few face-framing pieces and curl them lightly to feel intentional. Finish with strong-hold hairspray, but keep your hand light. The look should hold but still feel touchable.

That is the difference between “I braided my hair quickly” and “I am channeling Met Gala Georgina with angelic Monica Bellucci energy.”

Glen Oropeza’s path to the Met Gala started by accident.

Oropeza’s own story adds another layer to the look, as his path into celebrity hair did not begin with a perfectly mapped-out Hollywood plan.

“I actually got into hair by accident,” he said. “I was working at a salon during my third year of college and became really curious about everything — asking nonstop questions about techniques and decisions.”

That curiosity led him to enroll at the Aveda Institute in Philadelphia. Around the same time, reality television helped him realize celebrity hairstyling could become a real career path.

“I was watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians and saw celebrity hairstylists being credited on screen — that was a turning point where I realized that was the path I wanted,” he said.

After about six years working in salons, Oropeza moved into celebrity styling full-time. His first major client came through a referral from Jen Atkin to Chrissy Teigen, a connection he said helped launch his career.

“Over time, I refined my aesthetic, and now I’m known for polished, refined hair that enhances the natural beauty of my clients,” he said.

That aesthetic came through clearly in Rodríguez’s Met Gala look. The braid did not try to turn her into someone else. It enhanced what was already there, then softened it through romance, texture, and reference.

The 2026 Met Gala asked a very big question: Is fashion art?

Women of color answered: “Let me show you what art really is.”

Because of all the discourse, all the billionaire controversy, all the “Fashion Is Art” analysis, the clearest argument on those museum steps came through the bodies, silhouettes, references, and risk-taking of women who understood the importance of showing up.

Tyla came in dripping with peacock-colored drama. Beyoncé returned after nearly a decade and turned anatomy into royalty with her daughter by her side. SZA looked like a golden myth built from memory, nature, and fabric. Doechii made burgundy feel dangerous, ceremonial, and completely her own. Cardi B showed up sick, with a fever, and still gave the carpet a Marc Jacobs fever dream.

So yes, the theme had everyone talking. But, as is often the case, women of color did the actual work.

The Met Gala asked if fashion is art, and women of color brought the evidence.

This year’s Met Gala centered on the Costume Institute exhibition “Costume Art,” with the dress code “Fashion Is Art.” According to CBS News, the gala’s co-chairs were Beyoncé, Nicole Kidman, Venus Williams, and Anna Wintour, with Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez Bezos serving as honorary chairs. CBS also reported that the theme drew from the Met’s “Costume Art” exhibit, while the dress code asked guests to interpret “Fashion is Art.”

That context gave celebrities a wide brief. Some could treat fashion as painting if they felt like that was a good approach. Some could treat it as a sculpture. Some could treat it as a performance. Some could treat the body itself as a museum object.

According to Vogue, the exhibit’s focus gave attendees room to explore the classical body, anatomical references, naked dressing, drapery, and the dressed body as a concept. The publication wrote that Beyoncé “shut the red carpet down” in Olivier Rousteing, wearing a body-conscious dress with a skin-tone mesh base and a diamond skeleton that ran down to her fingers.

That was a good way of putting it. Women of color took the moment and rewrote it.

In other words, they made fashion speak volumes.

Beyoncé’s Met Gala return was anatomy, royalty, and total control.

Beyoncé’s return was a symbol in itself.

According to MadameNoire, this was Beyoncé’s first Met Gala appearance in nearly 10 years, and she served as an official co-chair alongside Nicole Kidman, Venus Williams, and Anna Wintour. The outlet also noted that Venus Williams served as co-chair for the first time, while the host committee included Teyana Taylor, Zoë Kravitz, A’ja Wilson, and Misty Copeland.

This means women of color were also behind the scenes, and the evidence was there for everyone to see.

Beyoncé wore a custom Olivier Rousteing sculptural skeleton dress with a cream-and-dust-blue feathered train, finished with a diamond crown. AP reported that she posed on the Met steps with Blue Ivy, also hinting that black women are setting the standard for the next generation.

E! News added another layer to the look through Beyoncé’s hair. Celebrity colorist Rita Hazan told E! that the initial vision was to bring Beyoncé back to the early 1990s with “more honey, chocolatey with some sunny highlights,” a color she called “a Manhattan blonde.” Hazan also said she wanted the look to communicate that Beyoncé, as a co-chair, “is actually all about art and fashion and she’s not afraid to change her look ever.”

After years of Cowboy Carter’s visual language, the warmer hair also served as a deliberate shift from one era to another.

Rihanna reminded the Met Gala arrival is its own art form

According to Vogue, she arrived in a custom sculptural Maison Margiela look by Glenn Martens, complete with an Art Deco-style headpiece. The gown drew from the label’s Artisanal 2025 collection and used a draped column silhouette inspired by the medieval architecture of Flanders. Vogue reported that the striking gown was sculpted by hand in duchess woven silk, with recycled metal threads typically used for computer wiring, while the corseted bodice featured more than 115,000 crystal beads, antique jewels, and chains. The embroidery alone took 1,380 hours. That level of construction made the look feel less like an outfit and more like a relic excavated from some future cathedral.

Tyla gave the Met Gala another reminder that she understands spectacle.

Tyla has already built a Met Gala reputation most artists would spend a decade chasing.

InStyle published a video of the South African singer making her way from The Mark Hotel to the 2026 Met Gala, a detail that now feels like part of the ritual because Tyla has become one of the red carpet’s most reliable spectacle-makers.

According to Vogue, this year marked Tyla’s third Met Gala appearance, and she wore a custom Valentino look designed by Alessandro Michele. The outfit featured a satin “bleu paon” skirt with a deep slit and an embroidered silver-rhinestone waistline. The tulle top featured long sleeves, a deep V neckline, fringe, and silver sequins. Vogue described the look as “very much giving body,” a fitting choice for an exhibition focused on how fashion interacts with the human form.

Peacock blue can easily become costume territory, but the styling kept the look in the realm of controlled fantasy. She looked like a pop star who also understands that the Met steps are crucial for representation.

SZA turned fabric, insects, flowers, and mythology into a golden vision

For her part, SZA took a different route.

According to ELLE, SZA attended the 2026 Met Gala in a golden yellow dress designed by Emily Adams Bode Aujla of Bode. The look included a corset dress with a tiered embroidered skirt, made with 100 yards of material sourced from eBay. On the carpet, SZA extended her arms to reveal a sheer butterfly-inspired cape held up by beaded bracelets, with swirling patterns and symmetrical floral details.

The accessories carried the same world-building. SZA wore a matching headpiece decorated with pincushion protea, moth orchids, calla lilies, cowrie shells, and champagne-colored jewels. The designer told Vogue, according to ELLE, that they worked with a vintage dealer who sourced “over a hundred yards of yellow fabrics” in tulle, taffeta, silk faille, and beadwork on lace, and that SZA’s affinity for moths, butterflies, insects, world travels, and specific deities shaped the final look.

Doechii made the Met Gala feel dark, feminine, and fully intentional.

Doechii has become one of those artists whose fashion never disappoints.

At the 2026 Met Gala, she leaned into that reputation. According to Vogue, Doechii made her second Met Gala appearance in a burgundy Marc Jacobs wrap dress, styled by Sam Woolf. Makeup artist Chelsea Uchenna told Vogue she knew the glam would be a “dark, feminine look,” which aligned with Doechii’s “very bohemian, very goddess vibes.”

The details did the rest.

Vogue reported that Uchenna used deep smoky tones and earthy jewel tones, with luminous skin meant to complement the outfit rather than overpower it. Hairstylist Matthew Jean-Pierre told Vogue that Marc Jacobs created the accompanying headpiece, explaining, “It’s actually a hat. I knew the headpiece was gonna be the star of the show, so we didn’t want to do a wig that was too complicated.”

That headpiece became a crown in its symbolism.

Even her nails extended the concept. Nail artist Rachel Sun told Vogue that she originally planned “a simple burgundy cat-eye nail,” but “could not leave it at that for such an iconic person and event.” Sun said the final nail look drew from naturally forming crystal clusters and added, “Art doesn’t demand practicality, and neither should nails.”

Chase Infiniti turned the Met Gala naked body theme into artful control

According to Vanity Fair, the One Battle After Another breakout star attended her first Met Gala as a guest of Thom Browne, wearing a trompe-l’oeil nude-illusion dress inspired by the Venus de Milo. Browne dressed each of his guests as an embodiment of sections from the “Costume Art” exhibition, and Infiniti represented the naked body.

But the look pushed far beyond classical reference.

Vanity Fair reported that the dress was fully embroidered with paint-stroke motifs, using more than 1.5 million stacked sequins paired with tiered silk fringe in over 600 different colors, layered to mimic brushstrokes. Infiniti told the outlet, “I love a [red] carpet so much, because I love getting to walk while literally wearing art.” She also said, “I like that it’s really not shying away from the naked body, while still not exposing myself,” adding that the dress was “artistic and tasteful.”

Cardi B showed up sick and still gave the Met Gala a full Marc Jacobs theater.

Then there was Cardi B.

Because, of course, Cardi B would arrive battling a fever and still understand that the 2026 Met Gala requested everyone to say “no matter what, we are here.”

According to People, Cardi told reporters on the red carpet, “You wanna know a secret? I’m actually sick, and I have a fever.” People reported that she attended in a custom Marc Jacobs gown from his fall 2025 collection, featuring head-to-toe lace, two large masses around her shoulders and at the bottom of the dress, and colors including purple, pink, orange, and nude, with light pink gloves and black leaf stitching.

CBS News simply reported that Cardi wore Marc Jacobs and noted the exaggerated silhouette. MadameNoire went further, describing the look as sheer black lace with exaggerated puff sleeves, sculptural detailing, a dramatic train, a body-hugging silhouette, pink and purple undergarments, sleek black hair, glowing glam, and a bright smile.

The inspiration made the look even stranger and more compelling. People reported that, according to Vogue, the silhouette took inspiration from German artist Hans Bellmer, known for life-sized female dolls.

Naomi Osaka made the Met Gala feel like the Grand Slam of fashion

Naomi Osaka also belongs in that conversation because her Robert Wun look was simply perfect. According to Vogue, Osaka returned to the Met steps for the first time since co-chairing the event in 2021, wearing a custom two-piece set by Robert Wun. The designer described the look as a “two-part act” that began with “a sculpted ivory coat, with open seams exposing red crystals from within,” before revealing a fitted red crystallized gown underneath.

Wun told Vogue the gown featured more than 659,000 stitches of embroidery, took over 3,280 hours of handiwork, and used thousands of Swarovski crystals in four shades of red to illustrate human anatomy “needle by needle, crystal by crystal.”

For her part, Osaka made clear she understands the symbolic value of the carpet, telling Vogue, “Obviously, a lot of people know me for my tennis outfits, and the Met Gala is the Grand Slam of fashion.”

Teyana Taylor’s Met Gala look blurred the line between body and art

Teyana Taylor, meanwhile, made the body feel like something constantly appearing and disappearing in motion. According to People, Taylor, who served on the 2026 Met Gala host committee, wore a silver fringed Tom Ford gown with a matching fringed headdress draped over half her face. Ahead of the event, she told Vogue, “The outfit is always very, very important to me,” adding, “It looks like it’s melting as I move. I like to think of it as the ‘ghost of a body,’ it appears and disappears, appears and disappears as I’m moving.”

The best Met Gala looks understood fashion as power, not decoration.

The strongest looks of the night did something many red carpets fail to do: they made the body political without feeding the controversy.

For the past few weeks, social media users have called for a boycott of the honorary co-chairs, Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez Bezos, linking the backlash to income inequality, Amazon’s business dealings, and big tech’s role in funding the fashion industry. Similarly, activist groups posted calls to boycott around Manhattan over Amazon’s alleged mistreatment of workers and ties to ICE.

But in the hands of women of color, that context did not disappear once the carpet started. It sat underneath the glamour.

So when women of color dominated the visual conversation, the moment carried a sharper charge. The Met Gala remains one of fashion’s most elite spaces, one tied to money, access, hierarchy, and institutional power. And yet, so much of the night’s actual cultural electricity came from Black women and women of color who transformed that space.

The year 2026 is a pivotal moment for the media industry as a whole. All eyes are on us to figure out, adapt, and be part of the disruption affecting each facet of our industry. Now, when our community needs representation more than ever, NALIP’s Diverse Women in Media Forum delivered and showed up for Latinos.

Held on Friday at the W Hollywood, the National Association of Latino Independent Producers featured an urgent theme: Women as Architects: The Future of Media. The event spotlighted Eva Longoria, the team behind The House of the Spirits, Peacock’s M.I.A., and wider discussions on how women are shaping storytelling, access, and power across the industry. Including two of our very own mitú jefas.

NALIP’s Diverse Women in Media Forum brought fundamental conversations about authorship, leadership, ownership, and the more urgent question of who gets to build culture in the first place.

What stood out most was the event’s refusal to separate creative work from structural power.

Again and again, the panels returned to the same underlying truth: representation is no longer only about being seen. It is about who gets to create, to greenlight, to craft the narrative before it ever reaches an audience, and who gets to stay in the room long enough to make those decisions matter.

The forum brought together women working across film, television, digital media, talent ecosystems, and executive leadership, but the feeling in the room was not careerism for its own sake. It revolved around infrastructure and, more importantly, sustainability. Around what it actually takes to build a media sphere in which diversity is central to how stories are developed, produced, financed, and scaled.

In that sense, the title Women as Architects did real work.

One of the clearest examples came during the conversation around The House of the Spirits, where Eva Longoria joined showrunners Francisca Alegría and Fernanda Urrejola to discuss adaptation, memory, gender violence, and the female lens.

When mitú asked how they were thinking about reinterpreting Isabel Allende’s novel for viewers today, the answers were immediate and strikingly grounded. Alegría pointed to the book’s painful relevance, noting that the violence and patterns Allende wrote about in the 1980s are still happening today. At the same time, she pointed out the importance of remembrance and the need to understand what came before if we want any hope of not repeating it.

Longoria, for her part, was blunt about the industry’s state. When we asked what feels different about this moment in Hollywood for diverse women leaders compared to when she started, her answer was devastating in its clarity: “Oh my God. Nothing, unfortunately.” She pointed to the drop in the percentage of female film directors and made clear that Latinas continue to face even steeper barriers. Then she pivoted to what made The House of the Spirits meaningful in this landscape: that it exists at all, that it was made in Spanish by multinational Latino creatives on a major platform, and that audiences now have the power to prove this kind of work deserves to keep getting made.

After all, one of the most consistent currents running through the day was the understanding that access is never enough on its own.

A project can be historic, overdue, or exquisitely made. But if audiences do not show up, the industry still tends to treat it as exotic rather than as a way forward.

Alegría and Urrejola also spoke movingly about how their Chilean background molded their approach to the story. For both of them, The House of the Spirits was never simply a canonical text meant to be adapted with respectful distance. It was part of the emotional and political context they came from. Urrejola spoke about hearing those histories growing up, about the dictatorship, about families hiding people whose names they did not even know, about the subtle world of spirits and memory that, in the good tradition of magical realism, goes beyond the metaphor and becomes lived inheritance.

The key conversation around the mechanics of the creator economy and how we build culture.

The panel Reimagining Representation: Creators, Culture & the Future of Media was another moment for the books.

The conversation made clear that the old boundaries between talent, media companies, and brands no longer hold the same weight as they once did. What is emerging instead is a much more fluid ecosystem in which creators are not only performers or promoters of culture, but builders of IP, audiences, businesses, and distribution models. That shift carries enormous ramifications for Latinos and, in particular, women of color, because it changes the terms of authorship itself.

Vanessa Vigil, president of mitú, brought exactly the kind of clarity the moment demands. As one of the few Latina presidents in digital media and the leader of one of the country’s most influential Latino media companies, she spoke from inside the business reality of what it means to shape culture for a new generation of U.S. Latinos and how it’s not something exclusively for our community but for all diverse communities.

“We’re very much leaning into culture as the unifying thing that drives mitú,” Vigil said. “But I think what we have found is that there’s so much about our culture and our experience as Latinos specifically [that’s universal to] the black community [and] the Asian community can really relate. And so that is something that we love to see.”

“And it extends beyond,” she explained. “It goes beyond just Latinos doing things a certain way. It’s not specific just to us, but calling something out like the nostalgia of the era that we grew up in, I think it’s a moment of levity, and like the time that we live in, that I think a lot of people really appreciate. And that is, again, you’re tapping into culture, but it’s not exclusionary.”

Similarly, the panel around Peacock’s M.I.A., The Character Architects, offered another version of that same idea from the creative side.

Moderated by mitú’s Daniela Salazar, the conversation explored how a character like Etta Tiger Jonze gets built across casting, writing, performance, and showrunning.

This was a pioneering conversation about collaboration as authorship, which is key right now because so much of the industry still isolates women’s contributions. However, Friday’s panels continued to resist that reduction. They made clear how often women, especially women of color, wear many hats while building projects from the inside out, while also carrying the strain of financial inequality and lack of representation along the way.

What NALIP’s forum captured so well is that women of color in media are no longer waiting for the industry to catch up to their ambitions.

NALIP has spent 27 years building a space for Latino excellence across creative media. Friday’s forum made explicitly clear what the new battleground looks like. And amongst the front lines are powerful and diverse women with a serious claim to the industry’s future.

And in this political and cultural moment, that is no small thing.

Because there is something especially clarifying about seeing a room full of women discuss media with this level of rigor at a time when so much of the wider culture still clings to rusted paradigms.