Voy en el segundo libro, donde Andy y Emily logran éxito fuera del yugo de Miranda pero usando todo lo aprendido. En un momento donde las tres se vuelven a ver, Miranda simplemente no las recuerda. Las ve como dos desconocidas, como si su trabajo nunca hubiese valido nada.

Recuerda muchas otras asistentes que tuvo, que hicieron cosas muy específicas — tipo denunciarla por acoso, o ser llevadas directo a la casa de locos porque no aguantaron el voltaje — pero ellas, que desde su perspectiva no tuvieron vida más que ayudar a Miranda 24/7, pasaron al olvido. Spoiler!, si las recordaba y muy bien, especialmente a Andy por que hizo lo impensable — se fue.

Yo he tenido jefes muy demandantes, que no pueden decidir qué es lo que quieren y que en ocasiones hacen la vida imposible. He salido de trabajos llena de resentimientos por lo que consideraba un gran pecado cometido en mi contra. En mi caso he vuelto a ver a estos personajes y no pasó como en el libro. Sí fui recordada.

Fui recordada por ser transparente, como me decía Jesús - un antiguo compañero de trabajo - “a usted se le notan todos los sentimientos”.

Poniéndome en los zapatos de Miranda y de todos aquellos terrores de jefes por los que he pasado, pienso: ¿De verdad eran tan malos? O no tenían tiempo ni cabeza para ser mejores.

Quizás simplemente hemos sido instrumentos para alguien más — como el lápiz que funcionó bien hasta que se rompió y simplemente consiguieron uno nuevo.

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Tal vez el problema ni siquiera está en el trabajo o en el jefe, sino en la manera en la que muchos fuimos criados. Esa tenacidad y persistencia que nos cuchariaron como si fuera avena.

Cuando me dijeron que si quería subir de cargo debía demostrarlo — que no valía lo que hacía dentro de mis 8 a 10 horas de trabajo, que debía añadir horas extras para que se viera mi interés. En algún momento lo hice. Pero cuando fue puesto en palabras no me gustó: ese momento donde a manera de 1:1, sigilosamente, te dicen que les gustaría verte más seguido en la oficina después del turno, que así podría tener más tiempo para aprender. O cuando me dijeron que les gustaba mi trabajo, y que al buen trabajo se paga con más trabajo — no dinero, no promoción — simplemente llenar los pocos minutos de mi tiempo que me sobraban.

Y jugué el juego. Trabajé en muchas ocasiones 24/7, porque a pesar de todo, los jefes no miran el esfuerzo. No están siempre atentos a cuántas horas reales pasamos en frente del computador o si tomamos un descanso. Lo que miran son los resultados, el runrún de la oficina, y las pocas apreciaciones que tienen cuando pasan. Si cada vez que pasan te estás tomando el café, ya es una razón para creer que no me interesa lo que haces.

Leía las páginas del libro y recordaba las horas enteras que pasé trabajando, para lograr estar al día con las demandas del puesto — porque NO no era opción y “No Alcancé” podría ser considerado un pecado capital. Al final, a veces no había reconocimiento explícito. La única manera de saber que todo estaba bien era no escuchar nada.

La promesa por la que Andy tomó el puesto en Runway fue que después de cumplir un año, Miranda le abriría las puertas a cualquier puesto en el mundo de la publicación. Casi lo logra, a un mes de terminar el año — antes de quemarse y perder la cabeza — no pudo contener su reacción y botó todo a la basura.

Y recordé la vez que me maté trabajando día y noche: tratando de cumplir mis obligaciones y las del puesto que prometieron iba a ser mío, con la promoción lista y firmada — eso me dijeron — meses de cero descanso, aprendiendo cosas que eran parte del ascenso prometido, disponible siempre para lo de último minuto. Para que al final, en una conversación justo antes de un evento importante, me digan que soy difícil y que trato mal a las personas.

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Una conversación que no debía existir. Era un día lleno de cosas importantes — el olimpo corporativo completo estaba de visita, tenía que coordinar el evento en la oficina y asegurarme de que la fiesta de verano estuviera lo más parecido a perfecto. A eso súmele que a la oficina entera debían colocársele las persianas.

Fui a ver a mi jefe para que me aprobara unos Jiras. No más eso. Entrada por salida. Pero él me pidió que me sentara para hablar — de mi actitud. Pedí que tuviéramos la conversación en otro momento. El señor insistió.

Me enteré de supuestos claims en mi contra por malos tratos. No sabía qué decir.

Aparentemente yo era la villana en la historia de una manada de hombres. Me había costado trabajo conseguir ayuda de otros departamentos — mi departamento era yo solita —. Sólo pude decir entre otras pocas cosas ¿Cuánto debe estirar el caucho antes de romperse?

Mis manos temblaban con cada palabra — de dolor, de ira, de impotencia. Salí de la reunión determinada a renunciar. Me habían juzgado y condenado sin derecho a defensa, sin conocimiento de que estaba sucediendo, a puerta cerrada.

Habían decidido que la promoción no se iba a dar hasta que no mejorara mi actitud. Matrícula condicional.

Y eso no era algo que iba a hacer — porque nunca tuve un careo con las supuestas víctimas, no pusieron en una balanza mi trabajo y nunca hicieron preguntas: ¿qué fue?, ¿cómo pasó?, algún tipo de trabajo grupal o lo que sea que haga Recursos Humanos. Nada.

No había señal más clara de que estaba en el lugar equivocado. Al final, una empresa siempre se reajustará, encontrará nuevos personajes, el rumor existirá por un rato y después uno pasa a ser uno más del montón.

El único que queda con resentimiento es uno — y así es como comienzan muchas veces las historias de los villanos.

— V.

Gracias por tu apoyo 🖤

Pasaron pienso 5 o 6 buses pero ninguno era el mío, el tablero no indicaba tiempo tampoco, sólo quedaba esperar. Después de unos 10 minutos finalmente llegó el bus. A última hora decidí cambiar mi dirección — en vez de ponerme en un lugar donde aunque de pié iba a estar cómoda, pensé que podía llegar al puesto que se acababa de desocupar. Error.

Me lo ganaron. En la siguiente estación se subieron y se bajaron personas — lo normal. Excepto que un individuo con chaqueta y gorra negra decidió que estar a 2 milímetros de mi espalda era mejor que aprovechar el medio metro de espacio que tenía en frente.

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Transmilenio es el sistema donde la gente se expande, al parecer la atmósfera los hace convertirse en queso. Normalmente la gente tiende a acercarse más aún teniendo espacio, como si quisieran compartir su calor humano.

Cuando eso pasa, yo aprovecho los movimientos del bus para hacerles saber que deberían alejarse de mí. El silencio es más poderoso que cualquier cosa. No tenía ganas de tener ningún tipo de conversación con nadie.

Todo sucedió entre dos paradas — la Marly y la 76 — tiempo suficiente para cualquier cosa. Tres veces intentando hacerle saber que estaba muy cerca, usando el swing del bus for momentum para que el personaje viera que podía usar el espacio a su disposición. Cuando de pronto sentí un golpe en la espalda. Me dolió. No era un simple empujón, tenía sabor a venganza. Me tragué todo el dolor respirando profundo y preparándome para lo que sabía iba a suceder.

Nos volteamos a ver — estábamos espalda contra espalda — inmediatamente me di cuenta que la había cagado terriblemente. La cara de este señor era de pocos amigos y parecía de aquellos que busca su pan de cada día en las calles a punta de donaciones forzadas.

Sacó a relucir mis tres intentos para que él se moviera, seguido de — está buscando que la raye — (afirmación, no pregunta) y terminando con un insulto que le diera la vía libre a hacer cualquier cosa que en su mente me merecía. Di un rápido vistazo a sus manos para ver sus intenciones y me miré a mi misma. Mis manos fueron directo al bolso, lo agarré con fuerza pero sin mostrar el miedo. Me di cuenta que el man estaba viendo exactamente lo mismo.

Todo pasó tan rápido que lo que recuerdo se mezcla en momentos. El insulto era algo como — ¿es que su novio o su marido le pega? Seguido de otras palabras que no logro recordar. Algo se apoderó de mí, una mezcla entre piedra y miedo, y lo único que se me ocurrió fue darle la razón al tipo. Sonreir y decir — Sí, sí lo hace.

No le gustó. De hecho me dijo que no le gustaba que le sonriera.

— Ah. Entonces usted me insulta y yo no puedo sonreir

No se que sucedió o qué reconsideró. Sólo sé que de la nada me dijo:

— Sabe que? Que le vaya bien… a mí no me gusta hablar con mujeres como… Usted.

No sé qué le respondí. Solo sé que nos volteamos — y no sé si era porque la vía estaba rota y el bus temblaba o porque la adrenalina se me bajó — pero mis piernas parecían hechas de gelatina.

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Esto fue a mitad de trayecto entre las dos estaciones, y yo lo único que pedía al cielo era que se bajara por alguna razón divina. No me podía mover aunque tuviera espacio, no podía dejarle saber que estaba cagada del susto. Hice lo posible para mantener mi posición de “tranquilidad”.

Esos dos minutos parecieron horas.

El man podía hacer cualquier cosa antes de bajarse si así lo hubiese querido, y no podía bajar la guardia hasta que el individuo desapareciera de mi vista. Estaba super atenta a la puerta. Veía por el reflejo de la ventana sus movimientos — que hacía, si también me observaba, donde tenía sus manos — evitando ser obvia de que lo vigilaba. En mi mente estaba la imagen de que este sujeto de la nada se volteara me chuzara y se bajara apenas el transmi abriera las puertas. Vi esa película en repeat por los minutos que nos quedaban mientras llegábamos a la siguiente parada. Era una opción que no podía descartar.

Sin embargo, el man se bajó y me calmé por un rato. El bus se llenó tanto que no había más remedio que aguantar a quien se me juntara. Karma. El resto del eterno trayecto lo pasé tratando de calmarme, de no perder el equilibrio y no romperme un brazo porque la señora que estaba detrás mío se colgaba como si fuera mi novio, pensaba que era peso pluma.

Al fin llegamos a la estación y lo único que pude hacer fue volar a la casa, lo más rápido posible. Mii vaso se había derramado.

— V.

Gracias 🖤

Por fortuna, no todos los trayectos terminan así. Algunos son absurdos. Otros incómodos. Otros simplemente extraños. Todos ocurrieron en TransMilenio.

Encuentra las demás entregas de Diarios de TransMilenio aquí:

The other night my husband and I were having a fun phone conversation. That night we were talking about telenovelas and how they change the actor or actress of a specific role without warning and pretend we can’t see the difference. From there we went on talking about Latin American culture, ended up on the weather and hail and how bad can it get, then he mentioned an SNL skit he thought was hilarious about a Latina talking about how cold it was overseas. He had trouble remembering the lady’s name so he thought it was easier for me to recognize if he described one of her greatest features. “The one with the nice bum.”

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It felt like a stab. I was checked out for a couple minutes, because I was back to a time before him where enough was a standard difficult to reach. He said: “The one with the nice bum” and all I heard was “You’re ugly,” “You don’t have one like that.” It’s a good thing it was a phone conversation, but the silence gave me away. He thought I didn’t find it funny because of the way he shared the skit.

In the meantime, all I could do was try to tie the story out with the video of Bad Bunny complaining about the cold. I knew we lost momentum and it wasn’t his fault.

I remember during college sitting in the plaza while on class break, just hearing them talking about the girls passing by. The building structure was made for that — all the hallways had a view to the plaza. Too many people to register and every semester new meat.

I don’t remember feeling jealous or anything similar. They were my friends. I was entertained. Hearing things like: está muy buena, or está como un mango.

At some point before college I thought that only men used to talk about women like we were merchandise.

After my first marriage I tried to avoid any type of conversation that would include looks. I was still trying to build my confidence back and I was susceptible to commentary — it just felt too personal. It took some alone time and lots of work on myself to be able to just be part of the conversation without feeling it personally. But being onboard doesn’t make it easier. Everyone is either worried because we eat too much or worried because there’s not enough food.

Before going back to ships I was getting comfortable with eating again, enjoying food without care and consequences. Then onboard, I could choose the best food for me and at the same time fall in the trap of the treats. The midnight snack chips, the ice cream cup for dessert. I was managing until I started hearing: I can’t eat that many fries, I’m gaining weight. And I was gaining weight.

Last night it felt personal. Right now, It’s not the time I feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

I felt insecure, it felt as if he was implying something. He has done interventions in the past, but his are more about the action. He would find ways to make me move. Like our last contract together, when I was not having a good time onboard and all my body could do was work and sleep. I didn’t have the energy even to make it to a meal. He noticed, and started to do what he does best: make me do things. He would pick me up so we could go and have lunch together, come straight to wake me up and ask me to get ready because it’s food time. No buts, no time to think, just a simple request. It took a lot of effort to get up from the bed. I wanted to spend time with him but at the same time I just wanted to disappear into Morpheus’ world. He doesn’t know how grateful I am for that.

My first marriage was such a great lesson that I vowed to never stop moving. I would never put myself again in a position where someone would have to point out to me that I’m becoming a slug.

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It’s funny how things happened. He never said a word about my weight that would let me know that it was a problem — on the good days he used to say: You still have time to change it. I guess that was the hint. But during the fights it showed, as if I wasn’t talented enough to read his mind. He would list all the things I wasn’t doing to lose weight. I did try. I was working out, walking more — we used to walk from the workshop to home, about an hour, daily. I tried dieting, restricting, everything. Nothing worked. I didn’t get in shape because my marriage was in danger. I got in shape because I got sick. Sick enough to not be able to function. The doctor said: she’ll be fine once she loses the weight. I discovered later that my looks were not the actual problem.

I grew up in a time where your family defined your future — if everyone in your family was overweight, that was your fate. I believed it, hated it, and at the same time tried to get comfortable with it.

— V.

Thank you 🖤

No recogí la energía suficiente para levantarme y simplemente hacer lo que debía por mí. Hoy solo quería dormir, descansar, desconectarme. No lo logré. Quedé en cama por una hora más en un estado entre dormida y despierta, hasta que me cansé.

No tengo ni cinco de ganas de llegar a un trabajo que no me da más que dinero, de jugar a las sillas bailables en Transmilenio. De llegar a la oficina para calentar puesto por 8 horas seguidas.

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Mi relación con Bogotá siempre ha sido de amor y odio, viví las épocas de reestructuración, donde estaban haciendo nuevas avenidas y el Transmilenio, tiempos donde estudiaba en Chapinero y en el centro, y llegar a casa tomaba casi tres horas. Tiempos donde no pensaba porqué hacía lo que hacía, tiempos donde no había de otra más que pa’ lante.

Pero no conocía nada mejor. Pensé que no había otra opción más que morir en la ciudad donde nací. Lugares como Barcelona me enseñaron que no todas las ciudades se comportan igual. Recuerdo escuchar historias de los pickpockets — cada semana que llegábamos eran semanas de nuevas quejas porque a algún huésped le habían sacado la billetera en las Ramblas. Nunca pasó, y salía casi toda vez que íbamos. Entre más salía más lejano era el recuerdo de la insegura Bogotá. Me adapté muy rápido. Me sentía súper preparada para cualquier cosa. Me di cuenta que era posible vivir sin tener que estar mirando de reojo y sostener la maleta como si fuera mi propia vida.

Y perdí la costumbre.

Llevo 9 meses en Bogotá y aunque los primeros 4 me dio duro, pensé que había logrado adaptarme de nuevo. Me contagié las maneras rolas de navegar por la ciudad, y en medio del estrés del sistema había conquistado la calma. Ayer tuve un incidente en transmi. Hora pico, el bus sin sillas pero con espacio suficiente para no tener que tocarnos entre los que vamos de pie. Casualmente tomé una decisión diferente sobre dónde pararme — en vez de ir a mi lugar seguro entre puerta y puerta donde no caben muchos, decidí hacerme en la ventana justo al frente de la puerta trasera. Un hombre se sube y se hace espalda a espalda contra mí. No me gusta, uso el impulso del bus para que se mueva. No funciona. Después de la tercera vez me empuja con toda su fuerza. Me dolió. Tan pronto estamos frente a frente me doy cuenta que este hombre vive para pedir donaciones forzadas. No hay marcha atrás. Intercambiamos un par de palabras. No sé si nos miran, tampoco busco ayuda. No me dejo. De todo lo que dice lo único que recuerdo es: ¿Sabe qué? Que tenga un buen día, no me gusta hablar con mujeres como usted.

En la siguiente estación se baja.

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En el momento que las puertas se vuelven a cerrar, mis piernas se vuelven gelatina. Estoy paranoica y el viaje a casa solo estaba empezando. Toda la ansiedad que Bogotá me daba volvió a mí, olvidé toda la calma que había logrado en los últimos cinco meses en un dos por tres. Sólo quería volver a mi casa.

¿Por qué exactamente debo hacer esto?, ¿por qué ponerme en riesgo día tras día por un trabajo que no me lleva a ninguna parte?, ¿Por qué?

Esa noche, mientras le contaba la historia a mi mamá y a Tiaan no pude evitar llorar de impotencia. Estaba cansada.

Estoy cansada. Esta mañana cuando iba en camino al portal veía como la ciudad nos envenena de a poquitos, forzándonos a caminar más rápido de lo necesario, vivir subyugados a lo que diga el semáforo en vez de quedarnos quietos — dando papaya.

Veía a un señor con bastón que lograba caminar mucho más rápido que yo, y yo me enorgullezco de mi velocidad. Ver que lo único que hacemos es correr, correr por el bus, correr por el trabajo, correr por la vida.

Hoy tengo las emociones a flor de piel. Ya lloré dos veces, parecía un zombie en el bus que gracias al de arriba venía desocupado. Me ofrecieron pan y me lo comí con el café con leche que me había preparado, y entendí a mi yo de 2 años que se calmaba con un pedazo de pan.

—V.

Gracias por tu apoyo ☕️

I was the “She thrives on conflict” kinda gal. I had a thing for defending myself that even the small leg pulling would set me off.

But that came also with a friend: the guilt, the one that will hunt me for the words spoken. I would replay the scene obsessively after an argument and ask for forgiveness soon after, even if I was not to blame. Especially an argument, or even a small discussion with a supervisor, someone who I have given authority to or that I believed were important. Didn’t matter who’s fault it was. I would walk it off, then bow my head and acknowledge my mistakes. I don’t want to lose you.

Being seen as confrontational is a heavy burden. At some point I started to watch my words, bite my tongue if it wasn’t too important. Great part of my life I spent the time juggling between important and non-important, but the percentage wasn’t even. 90% of everything was important and needed to be solved. I couldn’t afford to lose people, I was lonely.

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I always felt that I needed to explain myself for everything I did, since everyone had an opinion in my life. Changes were a big thing for me. I’m a person of habits, and I like to know that at noon is lunch and 3pm is tea time. When you mess with that it felt like an earthquake. Changing to a new country because of pandemic — the beginning of the great war. Learn the language, or bits of it, because people were deciding things without making me a participant. Adjusted my whole self so I didn’t feel like a burden in his home. Lowered my professional standards so I could fit into a country that didn’t recognize what I’d built. All before the cleaning day.

It wasn’t until the great war — the time in my life that started with the promise of a beautiful future, a family, love. As soon as it began it became the house of terrors. It all started with a simple disagreement. Cleaning day. I was told that it had to be on Sunday, full hands on, spotless. We were at his mother’s house. She wasn’t even there. I wasn’t born to be a cleaning slave. I shared my point of view. That was the first time my tone was not welcome in the house, and it was the beginning of 20 months of arguments, fights and tears.

I figured that I didn’t want it ever again, but not before he forced me to leave the battle ground. All I wanted was a tie. I wasn’t looking for victory, I just wanted to keep the ground I won. He didn’t want it. He spared my life and sent me away without a soul. So I decided that I didn’t want anyone policing my life, and I didn’t want to be yelled at because I cared.

I’ve never been the most social person in the world, except at work. My social battery is very limited, and I can be a great sport with other people for a small amount of time. I wasn’t allowed to say what I thought — I was trained to give flawless experiences. Guests weren’t there for straight faces or colourless answers. I ended up in a career where I, a person who loves silence and genuine connections, had to give extrangers the time of their lives. Here I was not able to pick my battles — I had no choice but choosing peace even if I felt like burning the world. No one believed me when I said it was only for entertainment.

After the Great War I became more quiet. Was mistaken as serious or even shy. But in reality all I wanted was for the world to shut up. I had completed my quota in fighting and tears for a lifetime, and decided to let people be even if I didn’t agree.

Not an easy task. I spent my time between biting my tongue and also being careful of not offending anyone. I just wanted peace. I used to think that people had to hear what I say because I was right, and they were wrong. Because I knew better.

I used to think that fixing things was more important than letting go. I didn’t even know that was an option. But now, I don’t even engage in conversations where I feel limits, or where I just can’t express myself freely. That’s one of the few things I won after the war: learning that a discussion is not the same as fighting and that we can agree to disagree.

Learning that words can be left unsaid was such a relief. I didn’t need to finish a conversation, not even a sentence. Saying NO to a conversation or anything in my life was a thing. No is a full sentence.

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I traded my reactivity for questions and context. Life saver. I was convinced that my intuition was everything and that it was for the most part right. I truly trusted it, but I lost it in the mist of gaslighting — part of the aftermath of the great war. Asking questions was merely a confirmation habit, not of doubt. But now. It was necessary. Having the whole picture took away so much anxiety that I was surprised I didn’t do it before. It took tweaking, though — what to ask that was important and what was merely curiosity.

A few days ago I was reminded that you can regret asking a question, and that at the same time you can just retreat and move on. It happened while having lunch. I was in the patio minding my own business, then my colleague sat next to me. It had been awkward in the office for some reason, and our relationship goes from a lot to nothing in a split second. But she started the conversation, an easy: how you’ve been? I thought maybe we were back to all of it era. Wrong.

How’s it going with the new guy?

She was trying to find herself, she said. She needed freedom to do what she wanted.

What did you mean when you said you wanted freedom?

Bam. Waterfall of reasons and defenses, strong, sharp, very Tolimense. She was defending her territory from… me? It felt like an attack, and that was my cue.

Funny enough this time I didn’t feel bad for the situation. It felt more like a flag, or a mental note.

—V.

Thank you ☕️

Sucede también que a veces, sobre todo en el trabajo, me contagio del ambiente que me rodea. Hablan de temas tribales como el último chisme de Karol G o la última conquista de los muchachos de la oficina. Al principio me dejo llevar por el momento, hasta que me doy cuenta que la conversación ya no me interesa, se ha vuelto genérica e insoportable. Me doy cuenta solo cuando ya estoy entrando en un tipo de conversación llena de sarcasmo, vacía, ofensiva y no del tipo amigable. Lo noto, me siento incómoda en la situación, me ajusto — trato de ponerme oficio — hacerme la ocupada, y continúo. La gente que ha pasado por mi vida conoce alguna de estas dos versiones: la que habla mucho o a la que le faltan palabras. A veces las dos.

He crecido en una sociedad donde el chisme es el pan de cada día, todo el mundo necesita opinar sobre la vida de los demás — había incluso una señora que cobraba por contar chismes. Como si necesitáramos permiso de la sociedad para ser.

Hice mi misión tomar mis decisiones sin aviso, sin opiniones. Después de contadas veces donde hice lo que me aconsejaron y después tuve que hacer lo que yo quería inicialmente. Como cuando quería renunciar de uno de mis trabajos, y todos a mi alrededor decían que estaba loca por siquiera pensarlo, decían que todos pasamos por eso y que todos aprendíamos a resistir. Los escuché y me odié por cada minuto extra que pasé ahí. Cada día era peor que el anterior, empezar el día se había convertido en una sentencia. 8 horas parecían 8 años. Dicen que si uno tiene una idea en la cabeza y se levanta varios días seguidos con la misma idea, hay que escucharla. Eso hice. Al final no le dije nada a nadie, redacté mi carta de renuncia y la llevé directo a recursos humanos. Sin más explicaciones que tengo otros planes.

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Ahora, realmente valoro los momentos a solas y en silencio, pero también he llegado al punto donde no sé reconciliar mi molestia cuando interrumpen la sinfonía de mi vida. Amo ser parte de la sociedad, sus contrastes, la gente que me rodea, me entretengo montones.

Especialmente en Latinoamérica, observar a la gente o mejor sentirse observado despierta una sensación de miedo y estar a la defensiva, una inseguridad que se convierte en agresividad. La respuesta de muchos a sentirse observados (en colombiano) sería: ¿se le perdió una igualita? Y bueno, si uno es inteligente hace caso omiso.

De hecho de pequeña me pasaba mucho. Recuerdo sobre todo en el colegio, yo en mi mundo ocupada con mis pensamientos y me trae a tierra un: ¿Qué me mira?

Me dejó fuera de base. Quería explicarle que no tenía nada que ver con él, pero él ya había decidido que yo quería mirarlo, como si me hubiera enamorado de él. Ya no era asunto sólo de los dos, había alzado la voz y ya era asunto de la clase. Solo respondí con algo de miedo: no lo estoy mirando. Me acomodé en mi pupitre y continué con lo mío.

Y es que a veces al observar no se observa a nadie. No es que te miro, miro a través tuyo. Tú no existes. Me pasó ayer en el transmi, paramos en una de las estaciones y de repente vi un par de ojos negros, intensos, mirando en mi dirección. Me sentí aludida, pero a medida que el bus se movía vi que sus ojos seguían en la misma dirección, estaba viendo algo que traspasaba mi presencia. Nunca existí para ella.

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Creo que haber trabajado en hotelería y turismo aprendiendo a decir gracias por los insultos recibidos por cosas que estaban fuera de mi alcance — incluso fuera del alcance de la compañía como el clima. Cómo decirle a un huésped que ha estado gritándome por media hora que soy una incompetente, una inútil entre otras cosas porque no le permito el paso a la salida. La salida que estoy bloqueando yo porque así me lo ordenaron porque hay un vendaval en Barcelona en estos momentos y nadie puede salir del barco. Me limito a mirarlo y ver que sin importar el tono, la amabilidad, o el contenido de mis palabras, solo escuchaba no y más se molestaba. Cómo le explico que ya le pasé la queja a Dios pero aún no me contesta.

Los pasillos de los barcos son calles. Ciudades flotantes con las mismas reglas: no avanzas, no dejas pasar. Cuando camino por las calles — especialmente de Bogotá — me acuerdo de Tiaan. En una de nuestras conversaciones me decía que él se asombraba de cómo todos vivimos con visión de túnel. Y toda vez que salgo lo compruebo: la señora que camina en zig-zag — no avanza ni deja pasar. El ciclista que se cree gusano y está convencido que puede pasar por cualquier hueco. Los que scrollean en su teléfono sin audífonos — esos en particular no los amo — quieren compartir lo que están viendo con el mundo entero. Y el mejor, el que cuando camina decide que parar en seco es bueno.

Siempre he pensado que nosotros deberíamos movernos como si fuéramos un vehículo, ver quién está a nuestro alrededor para hacer nuestros movimientos, como los aliens en hombres de negro, una criatura pequeña operando un cuerpo humano. Sería espectacular, pero a la vez me robaría poder presenciar la rareza de ser humanos.

Somos la especie más rara y divertida del planeta.

—V.

Gracias por tu apoyo ☕️

I wasn’t just insecure because maybe. I was insecure — insecure. I had been informed that being human just wasn’t enough.

So the blank canvas I was provided with needed to be perfect. But how? I didn’t know who I was anymore, or what I liked or didn’t like. Life became a trial and error without end.

I needed to be beautiful and successful so I could exist again, and was determined to stop in the tracks anyone who would dare to jeopardize it.

I was shaping myself in a new reality, thinking that I was finally out of the deep and heading to land. Wrong. I was more like the raccoon that put the cube of sugar in the water. Nothing lasted. I was losing in the game of life over and over again.

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I was forced to change everything in a matter of months for about four years in a row. Starting over was becoming the default setting. Didn’t matter what I tried, everything was crumbling. Chips and chocolate again — the winning formula. I was restless and plain unhappy. It felt like confirmation that indeed I was good for nothing, that somehow along the way I lost my charm and everything that came with it. I could feel my body tense up before anything even happened. I was losing for real now.

I needed answers, divine intervention even. Tried everything: videos, podcasts, books of manifestation. Nothing. Went one step farther — visited an astrologer and had a tarot reading. I asked my mother to pray and ask for miracles day after day. Nothing stuck. If anything I was even more unhappy.

But one piece of advice stuck. In one of the tarot readings I was told that I was in a transition. If things were falling apart, I should let everything crumble — it was part of life to let everything be destroyed so I could build something more permanent.

Are you serious? How could I let things just go to waste when they took effort and tears to build. I could not lose it all again.

I tried my best to keep this ship afloat. I was sinking faster. The outside world was being demolished. My inner being was crumbling as well. I was having problems with my weight. I could feel my body collapsing. Getting up from bed in the morning was becoming difficult. I felt heavy. My whole body was aching.

I had things and people to look after, but life was not cooperating. I was tired. I just wanted to rest. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get a minute of full happiness, what I’d done in past lives to deserve this.

I had become a walking waterfall. Tears just poured out unannounced and I couldn’t stop it, so much different from my childhood years where I gave the impression of being tough, careless and unbothered. Truth is that when something bad happened I would just save it for later and cry until I fell asleep. That trick wasn’t working anymore.

I noticed these last couple of years that my body was not holding anymore. My hands would shake when I had an important conversation or 1:1’s — I clenched my fist to control it. My head would start pounding as soon as bad news or bad encounters showed up. I was collapsing and didn’t know how to fix it.

The first time I went out with my person, it took me two minutes to realize that I had been careless with my words — I felt so comfortable that I wasn’t curating what was coming out of my mouth — and the way I was managing myself… I couldn’t care less about my posture, what the wind was doing to my hair. That night under the stars of Mykonos, I understood it was ok being me. And from that day, even on my worst ones, I felt understood, contained… Loved.

He showed me that it was acceptable for me to be just a human — dirty days, stinky days. That I was enough not only for him but for myself.

But I still had in my mind that we both should love in the same way, that we should strive to make each other happy. Until. One day during our daily phone conversation I said jokingly that he’s supposed to make me happy. He pointed out what was the mistake in my logic. He said: “I’m here to LOVE you but the happiness part has to come from yourself”. Said that I was the only one who could make me happy.

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I wish I could say that I immediately let go of everything that I couldn’t manage, that I was ready to let everything around me crumble. NO. But I was ready to simply put one foot after the other, that’s it.

I started paying attention to myself instead, slowing down my pace. Why was I still running? Learning to eat slowly, and take more than my usual ten minutes — the result of years living in constant hustle. It’s funny how you train yourself to save time: eating in ten minutes so you can squeeze in a coffee or a power nap. You get so good at it that when you finally have time, you’re not able to take it.

Be ok with doing nothing when there was nothing to do — that was a hard one.

And the biggest one — soothe myself, learn to feel my body. I caught myself frowning all the time, I had to ask why every time. I realized I spent most of my day and night with my fist clenched, and the whole process of releasing it and questioning myself why I was doing it became a ritual.

In the end what could a person lose if they already lost everything? It’s a super power — you can’t kill someone who’s already dead.

—V.

Thank you ☕️

This is Part Two of Diaries of Emotional Rehab — a series I’m writing about what happened after everything I was got dismantled, and the slow, unglamorous work of learning how to exist again.

If you haven’t read Part One yet, start there. It’s about the collapse — the moment when you’ve been told every version of yourself is wrong, and all that’s left is a blank canvas you have no idea what to do with.

For anyone who’s ever been told they were too much until they became nothing at all.

I’m publishing these as I write them. No fixed schedule. Just honest.

If this is landing, let me know. I read everything.

El gobierno creó un nuevo comparendo para castigar a quienes no quieren pagar el pasaje, que sube sin parar. Recuerdo viejos videos de muchachos detenidos por la policía y entrevistados por la prensa al mismo tiempo. Uno de ellos fue directo a su defensa—el pasaje cuesta mucho y lo volvería a hacer. La cara del policía fue lo mejor del video.

Llevo nueve meses en la ciudad y noté que el sistema aumentó el número de guardias de seguridad. Su único trabajo es asegurarse de que paguemos el pasaje. Tienen un silbato que lo hacen sonar cuando alguien se pasa los torniquetes para alertar a… No sé quién, porque no pasa nada.

Era normal ver a la gente entrar a la estación por donde uno entra al bus, me parecía que eran un par allí y un par allá. Ahora, ver bajar a la gente de la estación por cualquier parte menos por la salida para no tener que caminar 10 minutos y llegar justo al frente se ha vuelto normal. Hay muchas estaciones que no son convenientes. Para muchos no es un obstáculo jugar a no morir para llegar más rápido.

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Ayer, sin embargo, fue diferente. El comienzo del regreso a casa fue más incómodo de lo normal—el bus estaba lleno y mi espacio se fue reduciendo a medida que avanzábamos.

Estábamos llegando a la calle 72. Una de las avenidas más afectadas por la construcción de muchas cosas a la vez—el metro, estaciones de transmilenio y las vías de los carros particulares. Colocaron una especie de cerca de metal con la intención de dividir el carril de transmilenio y los carros particulares.

Vi que por alguna razón uno de los agentes de movilidad del sistema estaba en la avenida. Le ordenaba a los articulados moverse. Hay conversaciones sin palabras entre los auxiliares de obra y él—ahí vienen. Dirijo la mirada hacia lo que observan: unas personas caminando por el área cercada. La auxiliar de obra se prepara para abrirles la salida.

No son los únicos. Hay una procesión de al menos diez personas más caminando por la misma zona. Hasta que vi un señor acercarse al hueco de la cerca que estaba enfrente del bus en el que iba y que justo daba a la puerta donde para el bus. Perfecto para entrar sin pagar. El señor con toda la intención e impulso casi lográndolo hasta que el agente se le paró de frente y le mostró la salida. El agente logró parar al menos 10 personas más, pero alguien más pilo vio que estaba ocupado y encontró cómo saltarse la cerca y tratar de entrar por otra puerta.

El muchacho de buzo rojo saltó e iba tranquilo caminando hacia la entrada por toda la mitad de la vía. El agente lo vio y comenzó la cacería. Por alguna razón el man miró hacia atrás—quizás para confirmar que estaba libre la vía—y se dio cuenta que venía tras él el agente, como un tren descarrilado. Comenzó el pique. Y aunque estaba mal, yo y los que estaban cerca mío tomamos el bando del man—¡Cooorra! Gritamos en conjunto.

Mientras el agente estaba ocupado tratando de atrapar al muchacho de buzo rojo, se destapó el tapón. Se lograron subir 10 a la estación y otros más estaban en camino. Si lo cogieron o no, no lo sabemos—un bus nos obstruye la visión.

Otro guardia vio que la situación estaba fuera de control, corrió tras los que pudo para tratar de cogerlos antes de que subieran, y mientras nos alejábamos de la estación vemos cómo logra agarrar a una chica. Game Over.

—V.

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Esta es la tercera parte de Diarios de Transmilenio.

Si este ensayo te tocó, hay dos más antes de este, no necesitas leerlos para entender este. Pero si quieres más de lo mismo — están aquí:

Gracias por tu apoyo ☕️

The first time it came to my mind, I was on the bus with a terrible headache, and all I wanted was silence, but the world doesn’t just shut up when you need it and apparently your mind doesn’t either.
And it got me thinking, what does it mean to be gentle with yourself? How do you do such a thing? And I wanted to write about it, but the words didn’t come out. I just didn’t know what I needed to say.

I just focused all my energy on getting all the information I could, an old habit. And I got lost.

Yesterday, I was overwhelmed. I felt that all the information I had was not helping; if anything, it was doing the opposite. I was getting more and more anxious, and the headaches were more frequent. They just appeared without warning, straight to the tingling at the back of my head that spread faster than lava.

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There’s something my favorite person always says to me: “let’s cut the elephant one piece at a time.” I’ve been raised to finish what I start, not to cut a piece at a time, to always be on the run, to check and double-check.

But now life is asking me to change, to let go, and it kinda hurts, feels like burying a version of yourself—an outdated one that fights to be relevant. I always heard people saying, “I need to do something for myself today.” It always resonated with work, and that’s what I thought it meant.

I know now, and I felt it today, that I’ve been doing everything except taking care of myself, and the Universe confirmed it. Casually today, I listened to one episode of Philosophize This—Stephen was talking about Zen Philosophy and how most of us grew up in a society that taught us to grasp more from outside than from within.

Today was the day of the reminders. I was transported to an old version—yet again—a version that paid attention to the noise around, to the comments without basis that would bring the focus to me and not in the best way. After lunch, I was at my desk doing some work. A couple of my colleagues were chitchatting about the experience one of them had in China. There was a lot of curiosity because he met the people most of us just share emails with. Then there was a question about a specific person. This gentleman had every intention of making the verbal description but realized I was there, so he just said, “I’ll tell you later,” but did the motion of what he wanted to say. They laughed. I knew what he wanted to say; he had mentioned it to us before.

I was enraged. I was back to the time a person told me he was not attracted to me because of how I looked but swore he loved me above all, while we were taking a stroll on a hot summer night somewhere in Istanbul. All I remember is that even though I knew, it didn’t stop the words to cut me into a thousand pieces. We were holding hands, I let go immediately—he thought I was overreacting—obviously. And I had two choices: either to get defensive or soothe myself. I tried remembering all the good things I was doing for myself, even if they don’t show at this moment. So while I did a lot of breathing, all I could think was “Ignorance is bliss.”

So I hyper-focused on the computer, glued my face to the screen to avoid breaking his face in pieces. Killing is a crime.

Because even if things look odd and out of place right now, it doesn’t really mean that they will continue that way.

So I decided that to Be Gentle with myself right now means to enjoy a slow breakfast, looking outside the window, enjoying the sunshine, tasting each bite. And just being me.

That’s all.

-V.

When did you last let go of someone’s hand?

Si necesitas ayuda para enterrar una versión que ya no sirve pero que sigue peleando por quedarse — ya sabes dónde encontrarme.

Thank you ☕️🖤

Walking Error

Five years ago my life was turned upside-down, inside-out. Everything I was was destroyed, I became a walking error. Suddenly my tone of voice was not right in any situation. Always too loud, too aggressive, too impertinent.

That wasn’t the only thing. My personal appearance was an issue as well. I was never properly dressed. Either I was too elegant or looked like a homeless person, so I was checked every time before going somewhere and sometimes talked into changing.

Then my weight was also an issue. I had just moved into a new city in a foreign country. My dream city, the one I’ve been to briefly and fell in love immediately. Full of history, culture and food to explore, and in this culture saying NO was not an option. Their kindness and generosity was not one to be avoided. So I gained more weight, not only because of the delicious food but because I was starting to get a bit anxious. A few months later, I was told I was not attractive anymore. Ugly and undesirable.

Ornament

My pride and joy has always been my intelligence. I did all I could to learn everything in my hands. But all of a sudden my intelligence and all my skills were not enough. I was included in projects but not really “included.” I became an ornament to take around. A heavy unattractive one.

I had ideas, but they were taken as seriously as a toddler’s. So I had nothing left. I was in the cold, in the dark, and alone in a foreign city where I was not even able to communicate.

I’ve always been told that I was too much, or was doing too much. Someone always had an input about my life and an idea of how I should get by. Before, for many years, I made sure to let people know I was here, and to own my life in every way I could. She’s stubborn and aggressive—they said. But I bought the words of the person who told me for the first time that he loved me. I believed when he started to lay in front of me everything that was wrong, and that I should change—for my own good.

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I Was Trying Not to Be a Burden

I remember those days being long and lonely. I was trying not to be a burden. If the only person who wants the best for me wasn’t able to stand my flaws, then nobody will.

The person who promised to teach me the language so I can start being productive was consistent for three days and then forgot or got busy with a more important youtube video to watch. The one who would bring big amounts of delicious food, because I have to try, and then tell me I was eating too much. The one who would respond with a lovely public scolding just because I dared to ask the wrong question or suggest something different from what we agreed upon.

The one that will say to my face that I was wrong, or heard wrong, to something I thought I heard but wasn’t sure anymore. I was going mental.

Apart and Apart

Nine months in, he got an opportunity to work abroad. I was meant to tag along, with a job for me as well. I had no idea about working on TV productions. I was promised I could handle it—people with no education managed just fine and maybe just maybe, if my languages improved I could have some kind of promotion. I was told that since I was a foreigner I was going to be eaten alive by my colleagues and I needed to be protected. He decided that we needed to be in the same department, again—for my own good.

We set off to a new beginning. I thought. A new land, a tropical one, new commitments, and perhaps a better love life. Wrong.

I was so surprised with this new place. It wasn’t on my radar. So wild, green and just beautifully unexpected. At work only few spoke either English or Spanish. The rest of it was handled using the magic of body language and Google Translator.

Things didn’t change much. He was in a new and busy position and he had lots to catch up. However, for the first month I was useful. For once in a long time I felt I was part of something bigger. I was asked to help with the language—that I knew how to do. I was delighted to help, even if it was for free.

Things got better for him. Not so much for me. He got busier. I was drowning in boredom. I tried to keep quiet. Before that, when we had time we spent most of our days together but apart. Now that we had things going on, we were apart and apart.

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You Must Feel Very Lucky

I kept hearing the same thing over and over again, he’s such a wonderful man, you must feel very lucky!

You must feel very lucky! Those words haunted me all the time. What people were describing about my life didn’t match my eyes.

We were in a great position. He’s providing, giving me the money for me and to create a home, and found me a job as well. Doesn’t spend time with me, but that’s only because of his busy schedule. Barely touches me, but that’s just my fault—obviously—for not being able to lose weight. Obviously.

Detox

Things got from bad to worse. I was becoming a real issue. So the focus was on me to get a job, to get financially “strong,” and move on with my life—alone. I was out of his radar, even though I did my best to fit in his “box”—followed his hints on how I should look and behave, got in shape.

I was out of tricks, of how to make him want me again. I was out of new ways of being, because the old ones were of no use. It wasn’t enough being me, nor being someone else. I finally agreed on leaving. The relationship. The home I helped get together. The life I thought I was helping to build. The love I was told was forever. The last explanation I was given was that I was a drug he needed to get away from. He needed to detox.

Airport

So there I was, one morning in the airport with my two suitcases and my empty spirit. Flying to my mom’s to do… I don’t know. I wasn’t smart enough, I wasn’t pretty enough and I was not able to keep my home together.

I was just there with a blank canvas and no idea what to do with it.

—V.

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What did you stop trusting about yourself that you used to know for sure?

If you’re trying to figure out whether what happened to you was real, or whether you’re the one who got it wrong — I’m here.

He tenido versiones de esa conversación decenas de veces. Con amigas, con desconocidos que conocí viajando, con personas que llegaron a este newsletter y me escribieron porque algo resonó. La conversación siempre es diferente. La forma siempre es la misma — alguien cargando algo que no ha podido soltar, y una pregunta que lo abre.

No soy psicóloga. No soy coach. No tengo un método, un programa, ni un sistema. Lo que tengo es un tipo particular de atención — la que nota lo que dijiste en la frase dos que contradice lo que dijiste en la frase siete, y pregunta sobre eso. La que no tiene prisa por resolver, porque resolver casi nunca es lo que se necesita. Lo que se necesita, casi siempre, es simplemente: decir la cosa.

Entonces estoy abriendo algunos espacios para conversaciones uno a uno.

Así funciona: 60 minutos, solo nosotras. Traes lo que estás cargando — una decisión, un patrón, una sensación que no logras nombrar, una versión de ti misma de la que no estás segura. Yo escucho. Hago preguntas. Sales con algo más claro de lo que llegaste. No un plan. No tareas. Solo claridad.

Lo que no es: terapia, coaching, asesoría, consulta, sesión. Es una conversación. Del tipo que quizás todavía no has tenido sobre esto en particular.

Para quién es: personas en medio de algo. No una crisis — el tipo más silencioso de estar atascada. La decisión que no se toma sola. La relación que te está haciendo una pregunta que estás evitando. La vida que técnicamente está bien pero que se siente como si le perteneciera a una versión de ti de hace tres años.

Para quién no es: personas que buscan que alguien les diga qué hacer. Eso no lo voy a hacer. No porque no tenga opiniones — tengo muchas — sino porque tu respuesta no me corresponde darla a mí.

El valor es $80 USD por 60 minutos.

Si esto es algo que necesitas ahora — escríbeme. conversaciones.cosechasalvaje@gmail.com Cuéntame qué estás cargando. Con eso es suficiente para empezar.

— Vivian

Also available in English

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I’ve had versions of that conversation dozens of times. With friends, with strangers I met traveling, with people who found me through this newsletter and wrote because something resonated. The conversation is always slightly different. The shape of it is always the same — someone carrying something they haven’t been able to put down, and a question that cracks it open.

I’m not a therapist. I’m not a coach. I don’t have a method or a program or a framework. What I have is a particular kind of attention — the kind that notices what you said in sentence two that contradicts what you said in sentence seven, and asks about it. The kind that doesn’t rush to fix, because fixing is almost never what’s needed. What’s needed is usually just: to finally say the thing.

So I’m opening a few spots for one-on-one conversations.

Here’s what it is: 60 minutes, just the two of us. You bring whatever you’re carrying — a decision, a pattern, a feeling you can’t name, a version of yourself you’re not sure about. I listen. I ask questions. You leave with something clearer than what you came in with. Not a plan. Not homework. Just clarity.

Here’s what it isn’t: therapy, coaching, advice, a consultation, a session. It’s a conversation. The kind you maybe haven’t had yet about this particular thing.

Who it’s for: people in the middle of something. Not crisis — the quieter kind of stuck. The decision that won’t make itself. The relationship that’s asking you a question you’re avoiding. The life that’s technically fine but feels like it belongs to someone else slightly.

Who it’s not for: people looking for someone to tell them what to do. I won’t do that. Not because I don’t have opinions — I have many — but because your answer isn’t mine to give.

The investment is $80 USD for 60 minutes.

If this is something you need right now — write to me. conversaciones.cosechasalvaje@gmail.com Tell me what you’re carrying. That’s enough to start.

— Vivian

También disponible en español

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I belong to the generation with no iPads or smartphones in sight, not even the internet. My faithful companions were colouring books and paper Disney stories. We didn’t have cable TV at home; that was for the rich, and we definitely didn’t fit into that category. I never lacked anything — we were part of the middle class.

I grew up in a pivotal and very particular decade for Colombia: the height of the so-called “war on the state” waged by drug cartels, the fall of the biggest figure in the powdered star constellation — a man Colombians will always carry on their shoulders like an unwanted capuchin monkey - I pretend he never existed - and I do so with great pride. Then came the iconic 5–0 match where Colombia humiliated Argentina at the ‘94 World Cup and so many other events, both heroic and horrific.

Honestly,what can I say about my childhood — aside from a deserter, our two-person family worked just fine. The peace in our home would always be maintained as long as I caused minimal disruption to my mom’s routine. A single mother with a fearsome temper but unstoppable and always moving forward.

My biggest childhood concerns were things like getting good grades, waking up early on weekends to watch The Brothers Grimm and Oki Doki, recording the latest music on my mom’s giant old radio — and editing out the commercials. That’s it. That was it.

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The conditions weren’t exactly ideal for her and her little magnet for chaos (me), though that wasn’t obvious at the time. I’m sure my mom knew from the very first moment of her pregnancy that it would be just the two of us. The other party who helped me into the world was swiftly removed from the equation. But while the removal was fast, it wasn’t clean, and it left scars.

Still, despite the circumstances, this little rough diamond and my mom had supporters. Even though we were alone, my mom always had volunteers to take care of me. During school breaks, I had substitute homes where I could spend my days. But those arrangements never lasted long. From a young age, I was a professional escape artist. The moment I felt uncomfortable, mistreated, or — let’s say — left outside in the cold like a stray dog, I’d pack my things and head back home without hesitation. My mom, on the other hand, wasn’t too thrilled with my quick, bold decisions.

I wasn’t a demon child. It was like I had an invisible sign taped to me that said: “Troubles guaranteed.” And it didn’t help that my childhood navigated the strong waters of love and hate, adored by adults and hated by kids. I’m an only child; I’m sure if she ever had intentions of expanding the family, I made her change her mind in a split second.

I was born with a strong character, transparent in my expressions, and fiercely independent. That independence only grew stronger, especially being raised under my mom’s Business Montessori method. But still… a few more dolls, Care Bears, and unicorns wouldn’t have hurt. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t have learned.

Our mother-daughter dynamic was that we had very different ideas about what I should do with my life. My mom, being quite traditional, probably once dreamed of a daughter who followed the perfect script: top grades, full scholarships, a flawless professional career, and someone to feed her in old age. And it almost happened… except she didn’t count on me choosing the scenic route — the one with no pavement and lots of surprises. For most of my childhood and teenage years, our home was a battleground. We were both strong-willed, immovable. But despite all the clashes, I have to say — that woman was a lioness when it came to protecting me. Sometimes to the detriment of my reputation, like the times she used the “agree with the aggressor” tactic just to get them to back off.

Despite everything — the accidents (of which there were many, the floor and I were tight) and the drama — what I remember most from that time is how bored I was. Boredom was my default state. I don’t remember having dreams. I couldn’t tell you what my younger self would’ve answered to the question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I had hobbies — I loved art, dancing, and reading —.

When you’re small, you want to be big. But I didn’t want to be big out of whim; I needed it. I needed to stop depending on anyone to look after me, to stop enduring horrible days in other people’s homes just because my mom was afraid of leaving me alone and something bad happening.

I was never a regular kid, and blending in was never my strength. So, around age 10 or 11, I convinced my mom to let me stay home alone after school. But the victory came with conditions:

Straight home from school, no detours.

We’d keep the lady who looked after me — she’d serve lunch and walk me home.

Once inside, she’d lock the door behind me

Despite the strict rules, I realized there’s more peace in a locked-up paradise than in a crowded hell.

No thank you.

With love,

-V.

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☕ These stories exist because someone has to document the scenic route — the one with no pavement and lots of surprises. If you want to keep reading → Ko-fi

Thank you 🖤

Not in the passive, always on the way we do now—but in the intentional, sometimes frustrating, oddly sacred way it was in the early 2000s. Back when building a music collection wasn’t instant. When every song carried weight because it took effort to reach you.

This was before streaming. Before algorithms decided what you were supposed to feel next. Music didn’t simply follow us—it asked to be chased.

Listening back then required presence. You waited for songs. You searched for them. You worked for them. And because of that, you stayed with them longer. You didn’t skip as quickly. You let tracks unfold. Albums weren’t just containers for hits—they were worlds.

Making a playlist felt like a small creative project. You borrowed CDs from friends, ripped tracks one by one, typed every song title by hand, and paused between choices.

Does this song belong here?

That pause mattered.

Playlists weren’t background noise. They were emotional timelines. Friendships, breakups, crushes, road trips, late-night rides home—whole chapters of life compressed into a handful of carefully chosen tracks.

Burning a CD was a ritual. Track order mattered. Openings mattered. Endings mattered. You adjusted bitrates just to fit one more song, then labeled the disc like it might one day explain you to someone else.

Those CDs weren’t disposable. They lived in backpacks, glove compartments, bedside tables. They aged with us. They skipped. They scratched. They carried memory in their imperfections.

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Sharing music was deeply human. You relied on friends—the ones with faster internet, better computers, bigger collections. Giving someone a playlist wasn’t casual. It meant you’d thought about them. About what they might hear between the songs.

Then music stepped into public space. Ringtones. Loops. Identity compressed into seconds. We announced ourselves with sound.

Today, our phones stay silent.

The early 2000s trained us to listen differently. Technology has given us convenience, but it also took something away. What we miss isn’t CDs or playlists—it’s intention. Scarcity. The feeling that music wasn’t endless, so every song mattered.

And maybe that’s why those soundtracks still live so vividly in our bodies.

They weren’t just songs.
They were moments we worked for.

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🌙 Continue the Conversation

This is a curated extract from a longer essay written for patrons.

The full piece—longer, more personal, and unedited—lives on Patreon, alongside the complete Wild Conversations episode and additional reflections.

→ Join Patreon to read the full essay and access early episodes.
This space exists because a small circle chooses depth over speed.

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Dear you,
If you’ve ever looked at a number and felt invisible inside it, this is for you.

I think we’ve officially become part of that generation…
the one that gathers around tables, microphones, group chats, trying to understand why everything feels harder than it should. We talk about salaries. Rent. Survival. New York, Bogotá, everywhere at once. We compare notes across borders and currencies, trying to reconcile what the internet promises with what our bodies are actually carrying.

Because something isn’t adding up.

On paper, things look fine.
In real life, people are exhausted.

When Numbers Start to Lie

There’s something comforting about statistics.
They feel neutral. Objective. Clean.

That’s how we wandered into the strange world of global car ownership — charts ranking countries by vehicles per capita, quietly suggesting who is “doing well” and who isn’t.

But the deeper we went, the clearer it became:
these numbers were never about cars.

They were about how people are forced to move through the world.

In places where public transport fails, cars become survival tools.
In places where infrastructure works, cars become optional — even luxurious.

The same object. Completely different meaning.

The Salary Illusion

According to the internet, the average salary in New York City is around $127,800.

Say it slowly. It sounds like safety. Like comfort. Like ease.

And yet, we all know people in New York paying $2,000 for a room that barely fits a bed. People with “good jobs” budgeting groceries, skipping doctors, postponing rest.

That’s the magic trick of averages:
they smooth out struggle until it disappears.

I remember being in Argentina in 2012, during an economic crisis, when a tour guide quoted the president saying the minimum wage was enough for a good life. We laughed — not because it was funny, but because it was absurd.

That moment stayed with me.

Because statistics can be technically correct
and still emotionally dishonest.

Cities That Never Let You Leave

No matter where I go, I end up measuring cities against Bogotá — the one that raised me.

Bogotá teaches you distance. Five-hour commutes. Incomplete systems. Entire lives spent in transit just to afford survival. And it’s no longer cheap. Foreign money flows in, prices rise, wages don’t.

If you earn in dollars or euros, it feels like paradise.
I felt it too, living in Türkiye, watching my money multiply.

I don’t blame anyone for enjoying that.

But someone always pays the difference.

The Question Numbers Avoid

What these statistics never tell us is how it feels to live inside them.

They don’t measure exhaustion.
They don’t measure fear.
They don’t measure the quiet violence of doing everything “right” and still falling behind.

And maybe that’s why we keep talking.
Why we keep recording.
Why conversations like this exist.

Because the truth isn’t in the averages.
It’s in the people trying to breathe beneath them.

So here’s the question I can’t resolve yet:
If numbers don’t tell the truth about our lives — what language should we be using instead?

🌙 Continue the Conversation

This is a curated extract from the full essay written for patrons.

The complete piece — unedited, longer, and more uncomfortable — lives on Patreon, alongside the full Wild Conversations episode and extra material.

→ Join us on Patreon to read the full essay & listen to the extended conversation

This space exists because a small circle chooses depth over speed.

🌾 The harvest continues.

If this reflection stayed with you…

• ⭐ Subscribe to Cosecha Salvaje for poetic, grounded reflections

• ☕ Support on Ko-fi if you’d like to help sustain this independent project

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🎧 Watch to the full episode

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There was a time when newspapers were the most reliable source of information. What was written was the truth until proved wrong. I didn’t know the stories shared had agendas aligned to specific parties. The number of news writers and journalists who went rough, killed by the people involved in their stories, is countless. I still remember back in ’89 when the Medellín Cartel destroyed the facilities of El Espectador in Bogotá for trying to air the dirty laundry of one of its top leaders.

TV news, and TV in general, was made to entertain. The flashes of light and color when they arrived made things different—the original digital colosseum. It is not the same feeling watching the story, even with pictures and voices, as imagining it yourself.

Breaking News for Breakfast

I remember when news had a purpose, and rectification was in order once in a while. They were curated, precise, made for us to take a side. I started paying more attention during the Pandemic—I was seduced by the media; it was the only thing I had from the outside world. From that moment, we woke up to breaking news for breakfast. Everyone could make a video, let us in on the situation. Doesn’t matter which engine I used—I’d get videos, flashing lights, commentary, analysis, a rabbit hole I didn’t ask for, but that was swallowing me whole.

The system had changed, and I hadn’t noticed. I used to get international news from TMZ. Now breaking news comes from anyone with a smartphone able to record the story.

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The Sound of Distortion

The Internet changed everything I knew. I could get information in a fraction of the time. No more days in the public library, searching for book titles, praying no one else had the same research idea. No more fighting for microfilm readers to look at old newspaper articles. The early years of this wonderful invention required planning: making sure the line was free, connecting while enjoying the beautiful sound of distortion, waiting for the connected sign to move ahead.

Now news is at our fingertips, sometimes arriving without looking. The algorithm knows what to show each day. The feeling of overwhelm and betrayal came rushing. My blood boiled at the media making a big fuss over a reckless driver while millions were taken hostage next door for being undocumented. It felt like a smokescreen, diverting attention from the important things.

Creeping Doubt

The first time I heard “Fake News” was from Donald Trump in 2016, discrediting the legacy media I trusted. If the media we thought reliable was lying, who could we trust? Ten years ago, it was easier to shove those words away, but doubt started creeping in. One headline wasn’t enough. I began checking every headline I could, became an amateur investigative journalist, internet-savvy.

Now, in 2026, media is polished, sophisticated. We have AI assistants that do any task we imagine. We rely on them as if they were life itself, sharing prompts on social media so more people can use them. They make images and videos that bring our thoughts into reality. Great.

Almost Perfect

The videos we see are refined, well-made, almost perfect. You need to sit down and dissect them, because maybe what we see isn’t real. They perfect themselves by the minute, creating human figures and landscapes that can transport you in a split second. Nature videos with fictional species that seem real. Videos where famous people appear doing and saying things, and the individual shown in the video has to prove they had nothing to do with it and that it was digital creation. If that’s the case.

Before, you could debunk with proof—a photo, video, voice message. Now, you must doubt everything. Families take steps to protect themselves from AI-driven identity theft. We even doubt our own voices; because just like in Terminator, AI can impersonate us better than we can.

Maybe that’s what Google, Wikipedia, and other search engines offer: a chance to understand situations with facts. They may not be true word-for-word, but they help us stop jumping to conclusions. We cancel people like we change our socks; some deserve it, some perhaps not.

No generation is oblivious to the Internet. For boomers and millennials, it took a minute, but we get it now. We understand the snowball effect of a bad post. Before, false news took longer to spread. By the moment we realized our posts were wrong, someone had already reposted, screenshotted, shared. We were one second too late. We can become viral for no reason, or disappear just as quickly—like a Black Mirror episode.

Creating and debunking news and theories became a profession. People get paid for it—Perez Hilton, the “original” influencer, promoting himself since 2004, feeding anyone willing to pay attention. He’s not a reliable source; it feels like live-action Gossip Girl. Twenty years later, he’s still on. We help pay these people to do that job. If I’m not going to hear the truth, might as well make it fun.

News in general—I find it entertaining and unsettling. It makes me question my reality, feel uncertain about the world I live in, tempt me into the rabbit hole, because I need to see whether what I’m watching is true. It’s exhausting and fascinating. I try to let it go… and go back at it. The next morning, we start all over again.

And the rabbit hole waits.

-V.

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I was used to a working rhythm that will scream for time off rather than work—the kind where you have to really plan for coffee, bathroom breaks and sleep time. Working on a ship made me see the value of a power nap. Who knew ten minutes out of this world would be so refreshing.

Working Seasons

Before the ships, I worked in summer camps, seasonally, for weeks or months at a time and time before and after to recover. Then the ships came and wiped that out completely: six months of running, following rules by the word, and just being good.

I relentlessly looked for better opportunities and sometimes they were granted without the money raise. When I was younger that was ok, I was building my resume – they said.

However, after the pandemic, for some reason I was getting jobs where the tasks I was given were finished soon after, and then I was left in limbo. Even if I offered, there was nothing else for me other than just existing. When I was a VTR for a TV production company, I spent most of my time colouring, watching series, reading, and fighting for my life not to fall asleep.

I was part of the technical team of a reality show—the kind of show where people compete for prizes and houses and stuff like that. Man! I loved the competition part. It was like watching a version of me that I was not able to achieve, but was glad to be part of it.

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Opposite Direction

I had to go back to ships after the pandemic. That very first contract felt like coming back home. I saw people from previous contracts, people who remembered me, and that was exactly what I needed. It was extremely hard, but the work was paying off. It seemed that finally I was on route for a better job, a promotion. The next contract said the opposite.

It started off extremely well. I was learning more things and getting the responsibilities that would set me off for a promotion. Until we changed management. I knew the person from before—it was his first contract as a manager—but it took three days for me to understand that I had to be transferred, otherwise it would be a disaster.

I spoke to the man, I kept it professional and was persuaded to stay. He “saw” my skills and potential and asked for an opportunity to work together. I reluctantly accepted. Huge mistake.

The season for us was not big in money – I was working for excursions – it was a charter season in Brazil. I was super excited to see all my favorites up close and FREE. Can’t get better than that, I thought.

We were not working in our area, but rather helping other departments. However, the few cruises we had to do our job were horrible. I was used to being trusted with decisions and changes. This one didn’t. In fact I was being micromanaged, questioned, and held on a leash. I was drowning.

It was sooo bad that I requested to be the first choice on the side duties, that will take me off his grid for a while. It didn’t. Instead the office climate was getting worse by the day, and I got more 1:1’s on that contract than in my entire tenure.

I didn’t care if I worked more than the others. The side duties were often more fun and, even with longer hours, I was happier.

Management was changing again. This gentleman decided that he HAD to make our performance evaluation even though we didn’t actually work. And he made mine in a way that said that I was not a team player and that I should find another department to work where I could be alone and independent. His words.

Tender in Búzios

I wanted to talk to the Deputy (his supervisor), but didn’t because it was my first time with him and, even though we had good rapport and he was my supervisor on the side duties, I wanted to avoid being seen as difficult.

When this horrendous evaluation was uploaded in the system, the system was in transition, so the Deputy was not able to see it on time. So a month after this person left, we were doing great. I was working just fine, had a good click with the new manager, and I was more than existing. I was getting a shot to do what I did best.

But I knew that evaluation was gonna stain my file.

One day during a tender duty in Buzios with the Deputy, he asked if I had a fight with the last manager. I knew exactly what he wanted to ask. I said no and asked why.

He said: The evaluation he made was terrible.

To which I replied: I know.

He asked: Why didn’t you say anything?,

I didn’t want to complain – I said.

I would’ve rejected it, if I saw it before he was gone – he finished.

He helped me to change departments, and I complied.

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The Pot

Third contract, I became a Cruise Consultant. Brand new title and benefits. The upgrade I was waiting for so long.

And the Bonsai era started.

Not because I didn’t have things to do, but because I was not able to move anywhere.

I was going nowhere. I had to wait for people to come to me and, even though I was selling these beautiful destinations, I was not going to these places like before. I had too much time in my hands, and the click with my colleague was not clicking.

I did good. Met my targets 95% of the time. Got the respect of my colleague halfway through the contract. And met my person. We can say it was a “success”, even though I was still a tree.

I was given a second contract together with the responsibility (and privilege) of running my own ship, being my own boss. I thought I could deal with being a tree—a type of manager, but still a tree—like I mastered being overworked.

But I couldn’t.

That contract lasted 12 days.

Twelve days where every day felt heavier. Everyday I felt like death and buried while still alive. I felt invisible.

Twelve days considering my options.

I decided to leave.

I spent a little more than a year trying to find my place in the world. I felt lost. I felt guilty for walking away from what everybody thought was a great opportunity. That’s when I got my first corporate job, somewhere outside of Bogotá, in a nice and quiet village in the middle of nowhere.

I was given the responsibility of managing a whole building. I wasn’t a tree. In fact, I had enough work to fill my 24/7.

But I was stuck.

Stuck in a small town. Stuck with loads of work and promises of perhaps getting a better position. Stuck, alone, overworked and underappreciated.

I left, again.

Looking Out the Window

Fast forward now. A job that I got late in 2025, that promised movement and money, started off great. Great environment, great location, and lots of learning in the works. The second corporate job I ever had.

The excitement didn’t last long though.

A month into the job, I was running out of things to do. Management was getting busier and busier, but not busy with me included.

Weeks passed and nothing changed for the good. If anything was the opposite.

I was asked to do stuff that will be forgotten, like a way to keep me busy – but why?

The big shot I was offered months ago was becoming dust.

The new year came and things went from little to none. I wasn’t copied in the emails anymore. I kept waiting for instructions that never came, and when general information was given I felt excluded in the most sophisticated way.

I was expecting to be laid off any day, but that wasn’t happening either.

Confused.

I was stressed because I felt useless. People were busy around me and all I was doing was looking out the window.

Now I was a true bonsai, withering little by little.

-V.

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Este es un espacio raro.

No es un blog de consejos. No es una newsletter de tendencias. No es contenido optimizado para el algoritmo de nada.

Es un diario abierto donde escribo lo que no cabe en el micrófono. Las observaciones que se quedan dando vueltas después de grabar un episodio. Las imágenes que encuentro en una ciudad que no planeé visitar. Las preguntas que no tienen respuesta pero que vale la pena hacer en voz alta.

A veces es largo. A veces son tres líneas. A veces es en español. A veces en inglés. Siempre es honesto.

Lo que vas a encontrar aquí:

Ensayos que piensan en voz alta sobre cultura, identidad, y la experiencia humana en toda su complejidad — los mismos territorios del podcast, pero explorados desde la página.

Crónicas de ciudades, aeropuertos, mercados, y los rincones que la mayoría pasa de largo sin mirar.

Y de vez en cuando — algo que no sé cómo clasificar. Que es exactamente cuando más me interesa escribir.

Leer es gratis. Siempre lo será.

Si en algún momento sientes que lo que encuentras aquí te acompaña, te hace pensar, o simplemente te hace sentir menos solo en tus preguntas — puedes apoyar esta cosecha en Ko-fi. No es obligatorio. Nunca lo será. Pero cada gesto ayuda a seguir sembrando.

Gracias 🖤

Por ahora — empieza por donde quieras. No hay orden correcto. Solo hay lo que te llama.

Bienvenido.

— Vivian

Una cosa más — si hay algo que llevas cargando que no has podido soltar, algo que sigue volviendo, abrí algunos espacios para conversaciones uno a uno. Sin programa, sin agenda. Solo una hora honesta. Puedes leer sobre ello aquí

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Welcome to the harvest.

If you found your way here — through the podcast, through a post someone shared, by accident, or through that wild serendipity that sometimes takes us exactly where we need to be — I’m glad you’re here.

This is a strange space.

It’s not a tips blog. It’s not a trends newsletter. It’s not content optimized for anyone’s algorithm.

It’s an open diary where I write what doesn’t fit in the microphone. The observations that keep circling after recording an episode. The images I find in a city I didn’t plan to visit. The questions that have no answer but are worth asking out loud.

Sometimes it’s long. Sometimes it’s three lines. Sometimes it’s in Spanish. Sometimes in English. Always honest.

What you’ll find here:

Essays that think out loud about culture, identity, and the human experience in all its complexity — the same territory as the podcast, but explored through the page.

Chronicles of cities, airports, markets, and the corners most people walk past without looking.

And occasionally — something I don’t know how to categorize. Which is exactly when writing interests me most.

Reading is free. Always will be.

If at some point what you find here keeps you company, makes you think, or simply makes you feel less alone in your questions — you can support this harvest on Ko-fi. It’s not mandatory. It never will be. But every gesture helps keep the stories growing.

Thank you 🖤

For now — start wherever calls to you. There’s no right order. Only what pulls you in.

Welcome.

— Vivian

One more thing — if you've been carrying something you haven't been able to put down, something that keeps circling back, I've opened a few spots for one-on-one conversations. No program, no agenda. Just an honest hour. 
You can read about it here

Los últimos 108 días hábiles de mi existencia, han sido interesantes.

El día uno de esos 108 prometía grandes cosas, estabilidad, calma, raíz. Sabía que no iba a ser fácil, pero sentía que tenía apoyo y que si era cuestión de aprender – yo era la indicada.

Día Uno

Recuerdo que ese día tenía una sensación mixta entre emoción por aprender, viajar y poder descansar de buscar. Fue un día lleno de información y maravillarme con lo nuevo. Estaba emocionada.

La siguiente semana pasó sin pena ni gloria. Entendía que era una semana de ajustes y de observación.

Yo, acostumbrada a que desde el día uno se corre, se llora o se hacen las dos cosas juntas, me sentía entre extraña y aliviada.

20 días pasaron y traté de empaparme de tanto como podía, aparte también de estabilizar las cosas a mi alrededor: la búsqueda de un hogar propio y permanente estaba en la lista. Tenía cosas por hacer, no complicadas, pero llevaban un poco de tiempo y estaba bien.

Pero los días comenzaron a pasar y mi lista de tareas era cada vez menor. Ya nadie me podía convencer de que esto era normal.

Tributo

Pasaba mis días ofreciéndome como tributo para tener algo que hacer.

Nada.

Cada día me sentía más pequeña, estresada y casi invisible.

Como en esos videos donde uno está en la mitad de la nada mientras la vida pasa por nuestro lado sin inmutarse.

Sentía que me habían contratado para observar.

Que mi descripción de cargo había cambiado y no me habían informado.

Era posible: 6 semanas habían pasado y ni siquiera había firmado el contrato.

No recuerdo qué día era, pero era un día bonito y la oficina estaba casi vacía. Estábamos sólo los dos ingenieros y yo. Había tenido un par de semanas de perros y el ambiente estaba chévere para almorzar juntos.

Aprovecharon para preguntar qué me pasaba; habían notado que me estaba marchitando de a poco. Les compartí una versión curada de mi situación laboral. Ellos dijeron que en este lugar era normal no tener nada que hacer por los primeros 2 o 3 meses. Fue la única conversación sincera que tuvimos.

Ya estábamos a punto de pasar el margen. Crucé dedos con mucha fe.

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Apartamento

La ciudad tampoco me estaba haciendo la vida fácil. Encontrar apartamento había demostrado ser una de las tareas más desgastantes.

Lo más gracioso era que el dinero era lo menos importante.

Yo solo quería un lugar para vivir; ellos querían que les mostrara hasta la marca de mis medias.

Tres meses y medio dentro del trabajo y NADA.

Ya estaba entrando en crisis. No podía creer que una empresa me contratara para hacer absolutamente nada.

Desde ese día empecé a esperar que me echaran al final de la jornada, y tarde tras tarde solo escuchaba el:

”Nos vemos mañana”.

¿Es en serio?

¿Cómo que nos vemos mañana?

Obviamente ustedes saben mi propósito, pero yo no lo sé.

¿Me están marinando?

¿Como carne en vino y en limón?

A eso súmele que no había podido conseguir un apartamento por mi cuenta.

Mi dinero y mi intención no habían sido suficiente.

Me tuve que conformar con un apartaestudio tipo Airbnb, con todo incluido y del tamaño de una caja de zapatos.

Al menos quedaba a 10 minutos caminando.

En suspenso

Tiaan me había dicho algo durante una crisis que se quedó conmigo – “estás en limbo”.

¿Como así?

Pensé que quizás mi racha de buena suerte en el trabajo había pasado.

No podía creer que cada trabajo que conseguía prometía la luna, terminaba en llamas y conmigo pidiendo a gritos que me relevaran.

Me estaba volviendo loca. No sabía cómo debería actuar.

No era igual en ninguna manera a los anteriores. Ni gente loca, tareas sin sentido, o mucho trabajo.

No.

Este era un limbo silencioso.

Sin ruido de ninguna especie.

En el vacío.

Parecer ocupada

Me estaba agotando sólo por tratar de parecer ocupada, o por utilizar todo mi tiempo en el famoso doom scrolling.

Tiaan me decía que ése era exactamente mi error.

Ya sabíamos que estaba en el limbo, que no había mucho por hacer. Pero tenía opciones: podía usar mi tiempo a MI manera.

Después de las vacaciones de navidad, volví lista para ser productiva para quien lo necesite.

Si no es para la compañía será para mí misma.

Tomé la decisión de ver esta posición como un puente que debo cruzar, y que lo que me pagan sería para mi siguiente fase de vida.

Para ese momento, decisiones importantes de cómo mi vida sería para el 2026 ya se habían tomado.

El protocolo de control de daños se había puesto en marcha.

Ya no estaba estresada, ni siquiera triste.

Pero me inundaba el aburrimiento.

Aún siendo productiva en mis propias actividades, me sentía robada.

Sentía que me estaban quitando el tiempo que necesitaba para construir lo mío.

Y el dilema me estaba consumiendo.

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90 días

90 días dentro.

Hice lo que pude por sobrevivir, por tratar de llegar cada día con la mejor actitud físicamente posible a este trabajo que estaba dándome los fondos para lo que viene y, al mismo tiempo comprometiéndome con lo mío.

Pero me olvidé de mí misma al mismo tiempo.

No tenía energía para moverme cuando no era requerido y sentía esta insaciable necesidad de comerme el mundo entero.

No podía evitar comer hasta enfermar.

Ya notaba los frutos de olvidarme de mí misma, y aunque había tratado de estar activa, sólo sentía que la ropa me apretaba cada día más. Los diez mil pasos no me estaban funcionando.

Aún así, más decisiones debía tomar.

Sabía que el fin estaba cerca, pero no sabía cuándo. Aprovechar cada día de sueldo era crucial, y no podía gastármelo en una caja de zapatos cara como hogar.

Hablé con mi mamá. Le comenté la situación, le pedí cacao para volver a la casa. Dijo que sí. Sentí que estaba ganando en la vida, excepto que…

Era mucho más inconveniente. 2 a 3 horas diarias en transmi y menos tiempo para crear.

Pero al menos podía ahorrar mucho más que antes y tener un poquito más de control sobre este caos.

No era ideal pero era necesario.

Día 108

Hoy es el día 108.

Hoy llegué a la oficina temprano porque ayer llegué descaradamente tarde y encontré que la energía estaba un poco hostil.

Tuve que recordarme que no es necesario dejarme contagiar del mood de la empresa.

No hoy al menos.

Hoy he tenido continuas conversaciones internas y muy serias conmigo misma del porqué no debo comerme el mundo entero.

Hoy no estoy cómoda con mi cuerpo y las consecuencias de mi negligencia durante este tiempo.

Hoy aunque he tenido la inspiración para escribir esto, también me he sentido inútil y un fraude.

Hoy siento que no hago click con nadie en la oficina.

He tenido que calmarme a mí misma.

Pero hoy también ha sido un buen día.

Porque, independientemente de todo, el trabajo está haciendo lo esperado.

Me está dando dinero.

Y hoy ya es tarde, el día está acabando y no me han echado.

Así que puedo decir que hoy fue un ÉXITO.

- V.

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Gracias 🖤

Hace poco más de una semana, una señora me aconsejó hacerme siempre en el último vagón, porque muchas veces hay muchachos de la calle que ceden el puesto cuando se comienza a llenar.

Esta vez fue igual. Pensé que el señor se iba a bajar, pero al parecer se adelantó. Al lado de este había un muchacho, con ropa sucia, y en la ciudad de los sueños. Lo patea cuando se levanta.

El muchacho medio se despierta, pero su sueño es más fuerte que él. Tan pronto está libre el asiento me lanzo a tomarlo. Me sorprendo de mí misma.

Hay un olor desagradable en el ambiente. Pienso que es el muchacho, me hago la loca. Se sube una señora, se tapa la nariz, dice cosas que no logro entender. Sigo en lo mío.

Trato de hacerme bien al rincón. Realmente no quiero que el muchacho me toque. Él sigue en un sueño profundo, se mueve, se acomoda, comienza a inquietarse. De repente comienza a quejarse — aún dormido o entre mundos? No sé.

La persona que me había “cedido la silla” parece perdido. Va con un acompañante y deciden no esperar a que lleguemos a la estación. Quiere bajarse antes — “está lejos” — escucho.

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Y veo cómo rompe los sellos del botón de la salida de emergencia. Jala el botón, abre las puertas, saltan y se van como si nada. Alguien arregla la puerta — presiona el botón y continuamos.

Se queja, se mueve. Me preparo para el posible desastre, pero me rehuso a liberar mi silla. La silla a las 5 de la tarde cualquier día en Bogotá es oro.

Y se levanta. Hay trancón. No hemos llegado a la estación, pero él no puede esperar. Jala el botón de la Salida de Emergencia. Casi sale, pero recuerda que llevaba un morral. Lo recoge y salta.

Somos 3 personas viendo qué sucede después. Está intoxicado. No logra salir de la avenida y todo lo que lleva dentro sale como una cascada, mientras los buses tratan de no atropellarlo.

Llegamos por fin a la siguiente estación — la calle 76. Se llena el bus, la paz termina.

En frente mío se hace una señora que lleva un morral, una bolsa, recargando la pierna contra mi rodilla porque tengo el puesto que ella merece.

Cierro los ojos y luego escucho música. Alguién decidió que el silencio del vagón necesitaba acompañante.

Localizo de dónde viene el sonido. Tres muchachos, vendedores al parecer — llevan paquetes de bolsas de basura e incienso. No ofrecen nada. Son dos adultos y un niño.

Algo sucedió y comienzo a poner atención porque uno de ellos insulta al niño. No sé qué ha hecho, pero se ganó el “Caremondá”.

De un momento a otro se sentaron, recargándose en los otros pasajeros. Nadie les dice nada. Todos miramos.

En otros tiempos la gente los hubiera sacado o desocupado el vagón. Hoy sólo queremos llegar a casa. Miramos y no juzgamos — por fuera.

Me distraigo con la ventana trasera, y los demás. Todos ignoramos lo que está pasando.

Y de repente veo que el muchacho tiene en sus manos un tarrito de pegante Boxer. Me sorprendo, pero creo que mi cara no me delata y miro para cualquier otro lado.

Pero se da cuenta que nos dimos cuenta. Saca una gorra de su maleta, juega con ella, pero el propósito es poder cubrir el Boxer.

Está golpeado. Moretones en la cara y viejas cicatrices en la mano.

La música que coloca es de despecho. Canta e inhala, como una coreografía de baile.

El man está recargado en las piernas de otro muchacho — un pasajero más. El tercero le pide que se levante. El muchacho le ofrece cambiar de puesto para que esté cómodo.

No llegan a ningún acuerdo, excepto continuar igual que antes.

Continúa con su coreografía.

En otro punto del recorrido escucho a alguien gritar.

Una pelea?

No estoy segura. Estoy muy lejos para enterarme bien del chisme y el bus está muy lleno para que la pelea prospere.

Para el bus. Jalan de nuevo el botón de la salida de emergencia y sale un tercer impaciente.

Después de eso, el resto del viaje, los últimos 15 minutos, pasan sin mayor novedad.

Cada vez que llega el bus al portal y es momento de bajarme, siento como mi cuerpo se pone en modo carrera. Debo hacer un ejercicio mental para no caminar más rápido de lo normal y de ir con la corriente.

De sumergirme y dejarme intoxicar.

Como dijo Santiago Moure: “Me encanta vivir en Bogotá, la transición entre Bogotá y la muerte es casi imperceptible”.

-V.

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