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Growing up, I thought healing would look like forgetting. Like eventually, if enough time passed, the sting of loneliness, the ache of silence, the fear of speaking up would just… fade. But healing didn’t come in a straight line—it came in circles. In breakdowns I thought I had already outgrown. In laughter that felt too loud. In days I wanted to quit and it took everything inside me to simply exist.

I remember wishing for a lot of things when I was younger
— comfort, softness, to be understood.

I remember biting my lower lip as it quivered, screaming inside, “no llores!” But even if I could press my teeth enough to break the skin and make it bleed, I would feel the tears running down the side of my face.

I’ve always been an empath—a deeply feeling individual—and no matter how hard I tried, I would end up breaking. Sometimes in front of others, which made me feel exposed and ashamed. But more often, I broke alone.

I didn’t have anyone to cry to anyways because whatever I was crying about “no era nada” or I was “demasiado dramática.“

My feelings were rejected by the very people who were supposed to love me—so eventually, I started to reject them too.

What I needed was someone to bend down, hug me, and whisper that it was okay to cry. That I didn’t have to cry alone. What I needed was softness.

But in our cultura, emotions were often seen as weakness, and survival meant silencing what hurt.

So instead of being comforted, I learned to hide. I learned to smile even when my heart was breaking.

I tried to train myself not to feel, to go numb—leading me down paths of unhealthy coping and unspoken pain. And the more I disconnected from my emotions, the more I lost myself. But what I didn’t realize then is that I wasn’t alone in this experience.

For first-generation Latinx individuals, this gap is even more painful.

We carry the weight of cultural expectations, family silence, and the belief that emotions are something to “get over” rather than feel through.

Many of us grow up in homes where survival was the priority—not emotional safety.

So even when we’re hurting, we often believe we have to keep it to ourselves. But these silent wounds become just another barrier, making it harder to ask for help, to name what we’re feeling, or to believe we’re even allowed to feel it.

Healing came in unexpected moments—in the stillness after a good cry, in the tenderness of a hug I gave my own children, in the words I finally allowed myself to say out loud without apologizing for them.

The niña I was, she still lives inside me. And some days, her voice is louder than mine. She shows up when I’m don’t want to ask for help and feel like a burden. She flinches when love feels uncertain. She curls up in silence when conflict arises.

Many of us were taught to survive, but not to feel. We learned to disnmiss our own emotions before someone else could. We were told “no llores,” “no seas exagerada,” “no hagas un escándalo”—

So we learned to shrink.

To hide. To numb.

To hide.

To numb.

To put everyone else first.

And yet, there was always this voice—gentle, soft, hurting—waiting to be heard.

Your inner niña—also known as your inner child—is the part of you that carries the emotions, memories, and unmet needs from your early years.

I use the term inner niña because I identify as a woman and that’s how I personally connect with my inner child—but this work is for everyone. Whether you identify as male, female, non-binary, or somewhere in between, we all carry an inner child—a younger version of ourselves shaped by love, pain, fear, joy, and unmet needs.

When we’re triggered by something “small,” when we struggle to trust love, when we freeze or fawn or feel like we’re not enough—it’s usually our inner niña, still trying to protect us the way she had to back then.

Honoring your inner niña isn’t about staying stuck in the past. Se trata de escuchar to the parts of yourself that were silenced. It’s about giving her the safety, validation, and cariño que nunca recibió. When we tend to her with compassion, we open the door to a softer, more whole version of ourselves.

Recently, I sat down and wrote a letter to my inner niña. Not to fix her. Not to shame her. But to honor her, to hold her, and to finally tell her all the things she need to hear but never did.

I am opening my wounds to share with you mi carta para mi inner niña. In this letter I write to my five year old self, a time in my life that holds deep wounds. Writing it brought up tears as I grieved for the little girl who grew up too fast but also strength to be soft with myself.

I invite you to do the same.

✨ Write to your inner niña.
✨ Let her know she’s safe with you now.
✨ Say the words you needed to hear.
✨ Say them with tenderness, with truth, y con cariño.

You don’t have to be a writer. You don’t have to share it. But I hope you give yourself the gift of that moment—of holding the little one who still lives in your heart. She’s been waiting for you. And I promise: she’s still listening.

🌸Con Corazón,

Itzel