As A Little Girl Growing Up In Colombia May 2026

On Saturdays, my abuela would turn on the radio to Caracol while she shelled habas (fava beans) into a chipped ceramic bowl. I would sit at her feet, my small fingers trying to mimic her speed, and listen to the vallenato accordion weep about lost loves and wayward mules. “This,” she’d say, tapping her temple, “is the map of our soul. Never forget the rhythm.”

Were we scared? Yes. Deliciously so. But those stories were our inheritance—more precious than gold, more binding than law. They taught us to respect the jungle, the river, the mountain. They taught us that the world is alive, and hungry, and watching. Eventually, like so many Colombian children, I grew taller than the guayabo tree. I learned English. I learned to code-switch between the warm, lyrical Spanish of the interior and the flat vowels of the north. as a little girl growing up in colombia

, I promised myself I would leave. I did. I’ve lived in three countries since. But here is the secret no one tells you: Colombia never leaves you. It follows you in your scent for ripe plantains. It follows you in the way you gesture with both hands when you talk. It follows you in the unreasonable amount of hogao (tomato-onion sauce) you keep in your fridge. On Saturdays, my abuela would turn on the

As a little girl, I thought everyone lived like this—everyone knew how to make sancocho from scraps, how to dance mapalé without lessons, how to mourn a loss over tinto and pan de bono by noon, and be dancing by nightfall. Let me walk you through one Sunday. Never forget the rhythm

The church bells ring, but half the town is already at the market. I hold my father’s calloused hand. We walk past pyramids of lulos , marañones , and curuba . A woman with gold front teeth yells, “ Mamey, mamey, pa’l amor de Dios! ” At 10:00 AM: My cousin steps on my white zapatos escolares during a game of escondidas (hide and seek) behind the church. I cry. She offers me a bocadillo (guava paste) wrapped in a dried leaf. I stop crying. At 2:00 PM: The whole family gathers for bandeja paisa —beans, rice, chicharrón, morcilla , plantain, avocado, and a fried egg looking up at the sky. The adults drink club Colombia beer. The children drink Colombiana soda. There is no such thing as “kid food.” At 7:00 PM: My great-uncle pulls out a worn tiple (small Andean guitar). My great-aunt yells, “ Ay, no otra vez el mismo vals !” But she sings anyway. We all do.

But here is what I also learned: resilience is not a grand speech. It is my mother waking up at 4 AM to sell empanadas at the bus terminal so I could have a new notebook. It is my abuela turning a single chicken into a three-course meal (soup, main, and fricasé leftovers). It is every costeño on the Caribbean coast laughing harder than anyone else the day after a hurricane.

The backyard held a guayabo (guava) tree that sagged under the weight of fruit. My cousins and I would climb it to spy on the neighbor’s rooster, whispering about which one of us would move to “the city” first. We believed Medellín was a fairy tale kingdom and Cartagena was underwater. We weren’t far off. Colombia in the 90s and early 2000s was a complicated quilt. As a little girl growing up in Colombia , I learned early that adults spoke in two tones: one for inside the house, and one for when the news came on. I learned to read the tension in my father’s jaw when he heard a motorcycle engine too loud, too late.