If you have ever been told you are too loud, too quiet, too foreign, too ambitious, too emotional—or somehow not enough at the same time—then I hope this book helps you understand yourself, and appreciate yourself a bit more.
Las Luchadoras was written for the people who learn early that existing in the world requires translation. This translation isn’t just literal—of language, but also of self. The ones who adjust their names, their tone, their dreams, their grief, depending on the room they’re in.
Esperanza is told she doesn’t quite belong anywhere. Fiona carries the weight of expectations that were never hers to begin with. Alyssa moves through the world with warmth, yet still carries inherited histories she didn’t choose. These women are different from one another, but they share a common thread: they are constantly navigating spaces that were not designed with them in mind.
I didn’t want to write characters who were perfect or endlessly resilient in a romanticized way. I wanted to write women who get tired, feel lonely, and feel vulnerable. I want to write people who question whether their sacrifices were worth it. Who doubt themselves and their actions. I also want to write those who keep going anyway. Sometimes it can be because of their own great stubbornness or to prove someone wrong, and sometimes it can be because they have no choice other than to keep going. The latter is often the case.
There is a particular loneliness that comes from being told, directly or indirectly, that your presence is conditional. That you’re welcome as long as you assimilate, soften, or shrink. There is a lot you learn about yourself once you understand that you aren’t really yourself in those times, and how freeing it is to let go when you’re somewhere safe, where you don’t have to translate your own self.
I don’t want to offer any easy answers because there aren’t any. I just want to offer some recognition.
You are not imagining the weight you carry. You are not weak for feeling it. And you are not alone in learning how to turn pain into purpose—sometimes clumsily, sometimes imperfectly, always humanly. I hope those readers (and more) see themselves be recognized in these pages.
This story is for you. It’s for a lot more, but it is especially for you. Be the center of your attention for once, and focus on yourself.