What Kind of Woman am I(today)?

What have I become?

I was raised by upper-middle-class Mexican parents who said, “Be free, Chris.” They were liberal—in theory.

Go study. Travel the world. Learn English, learn Mandarin. Get a degree. Get two. Be bold, be brilliant.
But also:

Marry well.
Have kids.
Smile.
Make tortillas.

Don’t talk about sex. 
(Especially if the windows are open.)

My mom would be disappointed to know I occasionally buy tortillas and canned beans.

(And honestly, she should be.)

But, following my mother’s advice, I did learn how to clean properly—so I could show someone else how to clean for me when I had my own home.

Then I met American feminism—all shiny looking with glossy magazines and TV commercials saying:
“You can do it all!”
Be a mother, a boss, a lover, a best friend, a CEO, a yogi, a goddess, a glowing moon witch who drinks eight glasses of water a day and thrives in beige loungewear.

Do it all.
Alone.
But don’t look tired or show any emotion. And never, ever drop the ball. 

Then came the French whisper—tucked somewhere between a worn copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex and my third existential breakdown:
“One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.”
Simone, my college girl crush, flicking cigarette ash at my guilt like, “Get over it, already.”

I wasn’t born to be a wife.
Or a mother.
Or a rebel.
Or a burnout case.

I became.
And I’m still becoming.

—

So what kind of woman am I today?

I’m the kind who refuses to pick one version.
I’m my mother’s dreams and fears in one breath.
I’m America’s “You got this, babe!” and its 3 a.m. doom scroll.
I’m French ennui paired with Mexican sarcasm and a side of to-do lists I keep losing.

The only job I take seriously is being a mother, which means forever living with fear.
Not for me.
For them.

I’m addicted to beginnings—ideas, projects, new versions of me.
I love the moment before things settle. Before something must be finished, or fixed, or defined.

I’m allergic to endings.
Endings mean choices stick.
And existentialism says: You choose, then you become. Ugh.

So maybe I’m just endlessly becoming.

A woman stitched from three cultures’ half-truths.
A woman rewriting the same essay because her answer keeps changing.

A woman locked in a cage built by family, church, and capitalism – the whole time jingling the key in her pocket that she’s afraid to use.

—

So, what have I become? Ask me again tomorrow.

I’m not done becoming yet.