In Latino families, we talk about everything except the things that matter most.
We talk about food.
We talk about who’s getting married, who gained weight, who hasn’t visited enough.
We talk loudly, lovingly, endlessly.
But there are certain subjects that sit quietly at the center of our homes, untouched. Unnamed. Buried under tradition, faith, and the unspoken rule of “eso no se habla.”
We don’t talk about trauma.
We don’t talk about abuse.
We don’t talk about infidelity, favoritism, emotional neglect, or the damage silence causes.
We call it respect.
We call it loyalty.
We call it protecting the family.
But silence has a cost.
In many Latino households, children grow up learning early that discomfort should be swallowed, not spoken. You learn to endure. You learn to survive. You learn that elders are not questioned, even when they’re wrong. That family comes first, even when family hurts you. That faith means forgiveness but never confrontation. And so stories go untold.
Generational trauma doesn’t disappear just because we refuse to name it. It simply travels quietly from grandparents to parents, from parents to children. It shows up as guilt that doesn’t belong to you. As shame with no clear origin. As patterns you swear you’ll never repeat, yet somehow recognize in yourself.
We don’t talk about narcissistic parents or partners, because “that’s just how they are.”
We don’t talk about favoritism, because acknowledging it would crack the image of unity.
We don’t talk about sexual abuse, because it would expose people we were taught to honor.
We don’t talk about women who leave, because endurance is praised more than escape.
And when someone finally does talk? They’re labeled dramatic. Ungrateful. Disrespectful.
The problem isn’t what happened the problem is that it was said out loud.
For a long time, I lived inside that silence. Like many women raised in Latino households, I was taught to be strong, but not loud. Faithful, but not questioning. Resilient, but not honest about the pain required to survive. I learned early how to minimize myself so others could stay comfortable. I learned how to normalize things that should never be normal.
Writing Working for Her was not an act of rebellion it was an act of truth. This book exists because silence almost convinced me that what I lived through didn’t matter. That if everyone survived without talking about it, I should too. But survival is not the same as healing. And love that requires silence is not love, it’s control. If you are being controlled and think that your voice is not heard, even after you have given your best, reading my story might provide you the hope to fight and survive.
Working for Her is not about blaming. It’s about breaking cycles. It’s about saying: this happened, it mattered, and it shaped me, but it will not define the future. It’s about giving voice to the women, children, and families who learned to survive without language for their pain. If you recognize yourself in these words, then this book is meant for you. The issues we avoid discussing are often the very barriers to our healing.
