As A Little Girl Growing Up — In Colombia ((install))

Is there a (like Medellín, Bogotá, or Cartagena) you want to highlight?

I remember the first time I saw a roadblock. I was seven, returning from the coast with my mother. We stopped in the middle of the highway. Men in makeshift uniforms, boys really, no older than my cousin, carrying rifles that looked too big for their hands. They looked at my mother. They looked at me. My mother handed them a carton of cigarettes and a packet of coffee. They waved us through. My mother did not cry until we reached the next town. I thought this was normal. I thought everyone bought their passage with coffee.

at weddings and carnivals, wearing skirts that flared like flower petals. Even as a child, I felt the resilience of my people—a spirit that chose joy and dancing even when the history books spoke of harder times.

To describe what it was like as a little girl growing up in Colombia is to describe a childhood lived in high definition. It is a sensory explosion—a kaleidoscope of emerald mountains, the rhythmic pulse of cumbia, and the scent of ripening guava and woodsmoke.

That night, at a quinceañera, a boy named Sebastián pulled me into a corner. He smelled like cologne and sweat and cheap beer. He put his hand on my waist. He was seventeen. He had a motorcycle and a smile that was all teeth. as a little girl growing up in colombia

“There’s nothing bigger than that,” I whispered.

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I looked at my reflection. I saw the curve of my hip, the dark of my eyes, the way my hair fell over one shoulder like a secret. I saw, for the first time, that I was not just a witness to the world. I was something the world would want to consume.

If you grow up near Medellín, the Feria de las Flores is a core memory. Seeing the silleteros carry massive floral arrangements is like watching a garden walk by. Is there a (like Medellín, Bogotá, or Cartagena)

I learned that paradise is always leaking. It is always under threat. That is what makes it precious. The birds in the Amazon do not know they are dying. The wax palms in the Cocora Valley do not know they are being cut down. But the women—the mothers, the abuelas , the little girls—we know.

You carry the warmth of the sun in your disposition, the rhythm of the music in your step, and the unwavering belief that no matter how difficult the path, there is always room for a cup of coffee and a conversation. To grow up as a little girl in Colombia is to be given a foundation of love, a spirit of resilience, and a heart that will always beat to the rhythm of the mountains and the sea.

From them, I learned that Colombian women are not victims. We are survivors with lipstick.

Leaving childhood behind in Colombia doesn't mean leaving Colombia behind. Whether you stay in your hometown or move across the globe, the lessons of those early years remain. We stopped in the middle of the highway

reality was often too heavy to carry. So I escaped. Our town had a small public library that smelled of mildew and mothballs. The librarian, a gaunt man named Señor Álvarez, did not care about Dewey decimals; he cared about stories. He handed me a ragged copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude when I was only ten years old. “You are too young for the sex,” he said, “but you are old enough for the ghosts.”

Unlike the structured playdates of the northern hemisphere, Colombian childhood was feral and free-range—within strict boundaries. You could play in the street until the streetlights came on, but you never wandered past the corner store owned by Don José .

: Author Elena Garcés analyzes the patriarchal structures of Colombian society through the life stories of 18 women from various socioeconomic backgrounds.

For those in smaller towns, life is often characterized by the freedom to walk to the central plaza, get ice cream, and feel safe in a tight-knit community. Challenges and Resilience