Génesis RC

Tag: Life Lessons

  • Finding your WHY when you’re scared to say it out loud

    Finding your WHY when you’re scared to say it out loud

    My therapist gave me two assignments this week. The first: start finding your why — why you do what you do, what’s underneath all of it. The second: go somewhere beautiful to do it. She picked the place — the second floor of the Chicago Athletic Association.

    Why is this so hard to answer

    I’m someone who always has words. Ask me about my work and I’ll talk for twenty minutes. Ask me about food systems, community, hospitality, what’s broken in an industry and how to fix it — I have opinions. I have a lot of opinions.

    But the why? The real one? That made me go quiet.

    I think it’s because I already know the answer — and knowing it makes it real. And real things can be chased. Real things can fail. It’s much safer to keep it fuzzy, unnamed, sent to the universe but never fully claimed.

    What I do know

    There are three things I’ve always come back to, no matter the job title or the season of life.

    I LOOOOVE  connecting people. Not networking — actual human connection. Putting the right two people in the same room and watching something happen that wouldn’t have existed otherwise. I’ve built entire careers around this instinct without ever naming it out loud. I LOV food not just eating it, but everything around it. The industry, the culture, the way a dish carries an entire history inside of it. Food is never just food to me. It’s infrastructure. It’s identity. It’s how communities survive and how they celebrate. And I LOVE  hospitality. The real kind — where someone walks into a room and immediately feels like they were expected, like this space was built with them in mind. I think about that feeling constantly. I try to recreate it in everything I do. These three things? I’ve known them for years. They’re not the scary part.

    The door I haven’t opened yet

    The scary part is what those three things are pointing toward. There’s an idea I keep circling — something I’ve already put out into the universe, quietly, without fully saying it out loud. Because naming it means owning it. And owning it means there’s no more hiding behind “someday.” I’m in a transition right now — career and identity, mostly. I divide my time between Puerto Rico and Chicago, and both places know a version of me. But Anissa is asking me to find the version that exists regardless of which island or city I’m standing in. The one that doesn’t change with the zip code.

    I’m standing in front of a door I haven’t opened yet. I can feel the handle. I know what’s on the other side. I’m just working up to turning it

    And somehow, being in this room helps. Like Anissa knew the assignment needed a setting that matched its weight. You don’t excavate your deepest why just anywhere. You go somewhere that takes you seriously first.

    Why any of this matters

    Your why isn’t a mission statement. It’s not a LinkedIn headline or an elevator pitch. Simon Sinek talks about this — the idea that people don’t connect with what you do, they connect with why you do it. But when you apply that to your own life, it gets a lot more complicated. It’s the thing that explains your pattern — why you keep making the same choices across completely different contexts, why certain rooms feel right and others drain you before you even sit down. When you’re in real transition — the kind that touches career and identity at the same time — your why is the only fixed point. Jobs change. Seasons change. But the reason you chose this path and not another, that stays. The problem is most of us never stop long enough to name it. We stay busy. We move. And then one day a therapist sends us to a beautiful building with a homework assignment and we finally have to sit with it.

    If you’re somewhere similar — if you know something about yourself but aren’t ready to say it yet — I want you to know that’s a valid place to be. You’re not behind. The door will still be there when you’re ready.

    I’ll let you know when I open mine.

    Gracias por leerme,

    Génesis 🍒

  • Warm Chicago.

    Warm Chicago.

    You survived the winter. Here’s your reward.

    Hay cosas que no puedes explicarle a alguien que nunca ha vivido en Chicago durante invierno. No el invierno de “ay, hace frío.” El invierno de seis meses de cielo gris. De ponerte capas o el parka para bajar a sacar la basura. De olvidar qué color tiene el cielo cuando no está cubierto de nubes que se sienten personales. De preguntarte — y esto es serio — si el sol existe todavía o si eso era un rumor.

    Y entonces llega. Sin avisar, casi. Un martes. Un sábado. Cualquier día que Chicago decide que ya, ya fue suficiente.

    78°F 🌞 Not a cloud en sight.

    Chicago cálida no es simplemente buen clima. Es un acto de justicia. Es el universo diciendo: okay, you made it through. Here, take this.

    Salgo a la calle y la gente — toda la gente — está diferente. Like genuinely altered. Los vecinos que en febrero no te miran están sonriendo. Hay alguien con speaker en el parque. Hay perros corriendo que claramente tampoco pueden creer que esto esté pasando. Los niños en las escaleras. Las abuelas con las sillas afuera. El señor del primer piso afuera con una Tecate y los ojos cerrados hacia el sol como si estuviera rezando. Y lo está. Todos lo estamos. Agradeciendo los rayitos de sol que duran hasta my bed time.

    Aquí en Chicago, el calor es colectivo. Es una experiencia compartida que nadie tiene que coordinar porque todo el mundo sabe. Todos sobrevivimos lo mismo. El frío fue igual de brutal para mi madre que vive en Pilsen y para el man que vive en los suburbios… Y ahora el sol es de todos por igual.

    ☀ ☀ ☀

    Yo soy de Puerto Rico, o sea que técnicamente debería ser inmune a emocionarme con el clima. El sol donde crecí es una constante, no un evento. Pero almost 11 years living here and honestly — Warm Chicago me mueve más que cualquier verano boricua. Porque este sol me lo gané. Lo esperé. Sobreviví los meses en que el mundo se sentía INFELIZ.

    70° grados y empiezo a hacer planes que no voy a cumplir — ir al lago, explorar un barrio nuevo, leer afuera como si fuera una persona que lee afuera. Pero 78°— ahí está el número. 78°es la temperatura a la que Chicago se convierte en la ciudad que te convenció de quedarte. La ciudad que te prometió algo y finalmente lo entregó. 78° es la temperatura en la que pienso: okay. Okay, valió la pena.

    El invierno de Chicago no te mata — te convierte, te hace madurar. La primavera te devuelve, pero distinta. Con más paciencia. Con más gratitud por cosas que antes dabas por sentado. Como el sol. Como caminar sin sentir que tu cara va a quebrarse.

    Hoy caminé sin destino. Hice mis 10K steps antes de las 11am. Huge accomplishment if I may say. Eso es todo. No tenía errands, no tenía reuniones, no tenía nada. Solo caminé porque se podía. Porque después de meses de entrar y salir de lugares lo más rápido posible — porque el frío, porque el viento, porque el viento de Chicago que es un viento con carácter y opinión propia — hoy observe. Miré las casas. Miré los jardines que están empezando a despertar. Miré el cielo que era, te lo juro, ese azul que se siente pintado a mano.

    Y pensé: casi once años aquí. Inviernos, primaveras como esta. Y cada una se siente like the first time.

    Eso es lo que hace Chicago. No te deja acostumbrarte. No te deja ser indiferente. El invierno se asegura de eso — de que cuando llegue el calor, lo recibas con todo el cuerpo, con toda el alma, como si fuera un milagro.

    Porque lo es.

    🌞🌞☀

    Si eres de Chicago y estás leyendo esto: sal. Ahora. Para lo que estás haciendo. El email puede esperar. El laundry puede esperar. Sal y párate en el sol aunque sean cinco minutos. Cierra los ojos y respira profundo. Llegó el calor aunque hoy abril 6, este en 44 grados.

    Tú también te lo ganaste

    Graciasss por leerme 💘

    Génesis 🍒

  • Are You Patriotic?

    Are You Patriotic?

    I was a happy Puerto Rican — until I moved to Chicago. There, I became a proud, patriotic Puerto Rican.

    There’s a difference. A big one. And it took me leaving to understand it.

    Summer 2014. My second time visiting Chicago. I’m with my mom, tía, and tío; in Pilsen, a Mexican neighborhood on the southwest side. And there they are.

    Puerto Rican flags. Everywhere.

    My first thought, I swear, was just: “Que cool, banderas de PR, con el azul que es.”

    That was it. That was the whole reaction. Happy. Innocent. Not yet anything deeper than that. I just thought it was cool that someone put up our flag in this Mexican neighborhood. I noticed the blue — the specific blue, azul clarito, the original — and I smiled and kept walking.

    I had no idea what I was looking at.

    Growing up in Puerto Rico, I was lucky. My high school history teacher was J. Costa — and because of her, I knew more than most. She’s the reason I learned to be curious about history, to travel, to read critically, to question what’s not in the textbook. She taught me that Puerto Ricans were once prohibited from displaying their own flag. That it was illegal. That people went to prison for it.

    I knew it. I just didn’t feel it yet.

    That’s the thing about learning history in the place where it happened — it can still feel abstract. Distant. Like something that was, not something that is. Puerto Rico surrounded me so completely that I never had to think about what it meant to be Puerto Rican. It was just oxygen. You don’t think about oxygen until you’re somewhere that doesn’t have enough of it.

    After I moved to Chicago, I started doing what Janina taught me — asking questions, digging deeper. And I really learned. Not the clean version. La historia de Puerto Rico que no está en los libros de historia.

    The Gag Law. Law 53 of 1948. You could go to prison for owning a Puerto Rican flag. For singing a patriotic song. For speaking about independence in public. In your own country. Your own home.

    And suddenly those flags in Pilsen — in a Mexican neighborhood, thousands of miles from the island — made complete sense. That community wasn’t decorating. They were remembering. They were refusing. They were saying you tried to erase this and here it is, azul clarito, on every corner, and we’re not asking permission.

    I didn’t move to Chicago and find my identity. I moved to Chicago and finally understood what it cost.

    That’s when happy became proud. And proud is heavier. Proud has history in it. Proud means you know what you’re carrying.

    “La Patria es valor y sacrificio.” — Pedro Albizu Campos

    Don Pedro didn’t say the homeland is the place you were born. He didn’t say it’s the food or the music or the flag on your wall. He said it’s courage. It’s sacrifice. It’s something you choose, actively, even when — especially when — it costs you something.

    I understood that for the first time not in Puerto Rico. But on a street in a Mexican neighborhood in Chicago, on a summer afternoon, looking at a flag I’d seen my whole life and finally, truly seeing it.

    Now I live between two places and I don’t know where I belong — or if belonging is even the right word anymore. Chicago gave me my pride. Puerto Rico gave me my roots. And every few months I’m on a plane asking myself the same question I still don’t have an answer to:

    Where do I go?

    I don’t know. What I do know is that wherever I land, I’m Puerto Rican out loud. Not because it’s easy or automatic or ambient the way it used to be — but because I know now what it means. What it cost. What it’s worth.

    Azul clarito. Siempre. 🩵  

    Gracias por leerme 😽

    Génesis🍒

  • I Need a James Bond Martini

    I Need a James Bond Martini

    Shaken. Obviously.

    I don’t even know where to start with this week. It’s been so bored-exciting that I’ve cried, laughed, walked more than my 10,000 daily steps, cleaned out my closet, and somehow ended up here — ten days without nicotine, no Instagram, cutting sugar, and drinking peppermint tea like it’s going to save me.

    It’s not going to save me. But here we are.

    The weirdest part? My hands. Something is missing in my hands. That vape after every meal was a whole ritual — punctuation, almost. Meal ends, hand reaches. Now the meal ends and my hand just… hovers. Lost. I replaced it with sugar for a minute and now I’m replacing the sugar with water or peppermint tea and honestly my hands still don’t know what to do with themselves. Ten days in and I’m still negotiating with my own fingers.

    The boredom is the thing nobody warned me about. Not the cravings exactly — more like boredom turns into anxiety turns into sadness turns into crying in the Modern Wing of the Art Institute of Chicago on a Tuesday afternoon. In front of a Magritte. And a Dalí. Earbuds in, listening to Se Regalan Dudas talk about what it means to not be the chosen one, surrounded by paintings that are literally about reality not being what it looks like. I couldn’t have planned that if I tried. The feelings that were being managed suddenly had nowhere to go, so they went there. In public. In front of a surrealist.

    So I walk.

    Two, three times a day to the park. To the zoo. Nobody asked me to, there’s no app getting credit for it, it’s just me and the wind in my face and something about having to fight through it that makes me feel free. Like my body remembered it was mine.

    I wake up at 2am sometimes. Reach for the vape. Remember. Go back to sleep.

    That’s it. That’s the whole thing. No vape, no Instagram, less sugar, more steps, peppermint tea, wind in my face.

    Still here. Hands empty. Feeling everything.

    Martini pending.

    Graciasss por leerme 🧧

    Génesis 🩵❣️

  • Why Did I Come Back to the Cold?

    Why Did I Come Back to the Cold?

    Or: What happens when you’re Puerto Rican, professional, and realizing you chose the hard mode

    I keep asking myself the same question lately: Why the hell did I come back to Chicago?

    It’s February. It’s cold. I’m wearing three layers just to go for a morning walk. And every morning I wake up to news that makes me want to throw my phone across the room and go back to sleep until 2028.

    Meanwhile, Puerto Rico is 82 degrees and sunny. My people are making coffee on the balcony, talking shit with the neighbors, figuring out how to make community work even when the government won’t.

    So yeah. Why did I come back to this?

    The Professional Calculus (Or: The Lie We Tell Ourselves)

    Here’s what I told myself when I return back dfrom xmas vacations: The opportunities are here. The clients are here. You built something in Chicago, you can’t just walk away from it.

    And that’s true. I did build something. Over a decade of consulting work, events that brought people together, programs that actually mattered. I created a career here as a Puerto Rican woman in spaces that weren’t designed for me. That counts for something.

    But let’s be honest about what’s happening right now.

    I’m watching organizations I worked with—organizations that claimed to care about “diversity” and “inclusion” and all those words they loved putting in their mission statements—suddenly go real quiet. DEI initiatives getting cut. “Budget constraints,” they say. “Shifting priorities.”

    Meanwhile, the new administration is making it very clear what they think about people who look like me, sound like me, come from where I come from.

    And I’m sitting here with my carefully crafted resume and my polished cover letters, trying to convince people to hire me while wondering if they’re even reading past my name.

    Génesis Rivera Candelaria.

    Yeah, that’s gonna be a “culture fit,” I’m sure.

    The Personal Reality (Or: I’m Scared and I’m Tired of Pretending I’m Not)

    I’m afraid.

    There. I said it.

    I’m afraid of what’s coming. I’m afraid of policies that treat my people like problems to be solved instead of human beings. I’m afraid of rhetoric that emboldens the worst people to say the quiet parts out loud. I’m afraid that everything I worked for—the credibility, the relationships, the reputation—can get erased because someone decided that people like me are suddenly “too political” just by existing.

    I’m afraid that I made the wrong choice coming back here.

    In Puerto Rico, shit’s hard. The government is a disaster. The infrastructure is falling apart. The debt crisis is real. But you know what we have? Each other.

    Porque si hay algo que distingue a los boricuas es que aunque no sabemos votar por políticos que sí quieren lo mejor para el país, nosotros los boricuas sabemos hacer comunidad. Sabemos estar ahí para nuestros vecinos. Sabemos que cuando el gobierno nos falla—y siempre nos falla—nos tenemos el uno al otro.

    We know how to show up.

    And I’m here in Chicago, in the cold, watching community get dismantled from the top down, and wondering if I should’ve just stayed where people understand that survival is a collective effort, not an individual achievement.

    The Cultural Truth (Or: What They Don’t Teach You About Being “Professional”)

    Here’s what they don’t tell you about being a Latina professional in the United States: you’re always translating.

    Not just language—though yeah, I do that too. I mean translating yourself. Your experience. Your value. Your worth.

    You learn to code-switch so seamlessly that sometimes you forget which version of yourself is the “real” one. You learn to make your accomplishments sound impressive without sounding “aggressive.” You learn to be warm but not “too emotional.” You learn to have opinions but not be “difficult.”

    You learn to be Puerto Rican enough to be “interesting” but not so Puerto Rican that you make people “uncomfortable.”

    And the exhausting part? You do all of this while watching the rules change in real time.

    Yesterday’s “we value diverse perspectives” is today’s “we’re refocusing on merit-based hiring” (as if we weren’t qualified). Yesterday’s “bring your whole self to work” is today’s “let’s keep politics out of the workplace” (as if our existence isn’t political to them).

    It’s whiplash. And it’s by design.

    The Question I Can’t Answer (Or: What Do We Do Now?)

    So what do I do with all this?

    Do I keep applying to jobs that might not want me? Do I keep pitching to clients who might ghost me? Do I keep building in a country that’s actively hostile to people like me?

    Or do I go back to Puerto Rico, accept that the money won’t be the same, the opportunities won’t be the same, but at least I won’t be cold and I won’t be alone?

    I don’t have the answer yet.

    What I do know is this: I’m tired of pretending that “professionalism” means swallowing my reality. I’m tired of performing gratitude for spaces that were never designed to include me in the first place. I’m tired of watching my community get scapegoated while I’m supposed to smile and network and “add value.”

    And I know I’m not the only one feeling this way.

    The Thing About Community (Or: Why I’m Writing This)

    I’m writing this because I know there are other people out there—other Latinx professionals, other immigrants, other people with names that don’t fit neatly on corporate org charts—who are asking themselves the same questions right now.

    Why did I come here?
    Why did I stay?
    What was it all for?

    And I want you to know: I don’t have answers, but you’re not alone in asking.

    We’re all trying to figure out how to survive this. How to keep our dignity while keeping our rent paid. How to stay true to who we are while navigating systems that want us to be smaller, quieter, more grateful.

    Maybe the answer isn’t in Chicago or Puerto Rico. Maybe it’s in remembering what we already know how to do: make community. Show up for each other. Build the tables we want to sit at instead of waiting for invitations that might never come.

    Because if there’s one thing I learned from being Puerto Rican, it’s that we don’t wait for systems to save us. We save each other.

    Even when it’s cold.
    Even when we’re scared.
    Even when we don’t know if we made the right choice.

    We show up anyway.

    So here I am. Still in Chicago. Still cold. Still afraid. Still showing up.

    Let’s see what happens next.

    Graciasss por leerme.

    Besitos 

    Génesis 

    Génesis Rivera Candelaria is a freelance logistics and program operations consultant who spends too much time wondering if she should’ve stayed in Puerto Rico and not enough time actually booking a flight back. She’s currently accepting consulting opportunities, existential advice, and recommendations for good coffee that might make the Midwest winter bearable. Reach her at grcandela@gmail.com.

  • Get to Know Me: The Unfiltered Version

    Get to Know Me: The Unfiltered Version

    Look, I could give you the polished LinkedIn version of who I am, but that’s boring as fuck. So here’s the real tea about Génesis Michelle Rivera Candelaria– the person behind the events, the hustle, and the carefully curated Instagram grid.

    The Professional Fuck-Up That Changed Everything

    My biggest professional mistake? Launching the first Sobremesa Chicago event in Puerto Rico – after years of successful events in Chicago – thinking my friends would show up and spread the word. Spoiler alert: they didn’t. The event flopped hard. Nobody came.

    What I learned: Your friends and acquaintances aren’t always your first fans. Sometimes strangers become your most fierce supporters before the people closest to you even pay attention. That’s just how it is.

    The Cultural Contradictions

    What pisses me off: When I say I’m from Puerto Rico and people respond with “ahhh pueLto lico” in that fake accent. We don’t talk like that, fuckers.

    What secretly applies to me: Speaking Spanglish constantly. Can’t help it, won’t apologize for it.

    What I miss from Chicago when I’m in PR: The weather (that perfect 50-75 degrees WITH sun), the food scene, walking everywhere, and that magnificent public transportation system.

    What I miss from PR when I’m in Chicago: The people, the language, the beach, my friends, my family. Todo.

    The Random Shit You Didn’t Ask For

    I talk to myself. All the time. And whenever I can, when I buy food for myself, I try to get something extra to give to someone on the street who needs it.

    My guilty pleasure? El Señor de los Cielos. I’ve watched it so many times I can tell you what season any random episode is from. Aurelio and Rutila Casillas are my people.

    Current rotation: Salsa, Gustavo Cerati, and Bad Bunny. That’s the vibe.

    My one useless talent: Knowing random facts about… everything? I think that’s it.

    Hot Takes That’ll Make Me Enemies

    On the events industry:

    ∙ Low salaries for everything we actually do

    ∙ This myth that you need connections to grow (it helps, but it’s not everything)

    ∙ The “go go go” culture and the refusal to let people rest

    Job posting red flags that make me close the tab immediately:

    ∙ “We’re like a family” (translation: we’ll guilt you into unpaid overtime)

    ∙ No salary listed

    ∙ Any indication they don’t believe in work/life balance

    What Actually Matters

    Here’s something that doesn’t come up in normal conversations or on LinkedIn: I care so much about people. Like, deeply.

    My dream? Having a nonprofit to feed kids and help pass laws ensuring school meals are nutritionally good. A kid shouldn’t spend all day thinking about not having food at home, worrying that their only meal is what they get at school. They should have nutritious breakfast and lunch. It shouldn’t be like this.

    The Future I’m Manifesting

    Picture this: I’m in Puerto Rico, looking out at the beach with mountains in the background. It’s morning – soft, slow. I’m reading emails with my second coffee of the day, planning out what’s most important versus what’s least urgent.

    I’m running a global food business from the island, operating para el mundo. I’m alone in that moment, but backed by a battalion of mentors and entrepreneurs who came before me.

    The version of myself I’m most afraid of becoming? Not this one. The opposite of this one.

    My Event Philosophy

    Keep people happy, respect the budget, and don’t let them see you sweat.

    It sounds simple, but it’s everything. The organization, being clear from the beginning, getting the right people for the event’s objectives – that’s what I learned from 7+ years and 50+ events. From intimate dinners to programs with 1,000+ attendees.

    Advice to Past Me

    To the Génesis from 9 years ago who was just starting with events: Try to absorb everything you can about advertising, logistics, vendors, all of it. Try all the trends. And for fuck’s sake, ask for help.

    The Essentials

    Comfort food/celebration food/hangover food: Pizza. Tavern style for sure. Never deep dish (sorrry chicago🙃)

    Most overrated fancy food: Caviar. Fight me.

    If I could only eat at one Chicago restaurant forever: Lula Cafe.

    Death row meal: Arroz blanco con picadillo, aguacate, and ají amarillo hot sauce.

    Downtime activity that looks productive but isn’t: Writing. It’s how I disconnect.

    Last book I read: Re-reading El Libro de los Abrazos by Eduardo Galeano.

    The Bottom Line

    I’m a bilingual logistics and events consultant who’s done everything from managing national conferences to coordinating crisis response during a pandemic. I’ve built event operations from scratch, scaled underground dinners into cultural movements, and somehow always made it look easy (even when it absolutely wasn’t).

    I’m currently freelancing, job searching, and building something bigger than myself. I operate between two worlds – Chicago and Puerto Rico – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

    The question people ask me most in networking that I’m tired of? I don’t even know anymore. But whatever it is, I’ll still answer it with a smile because that’s the job.

    That’s me. No filter, no bullshit. Just Génesis. Graciass por leerme.

    Besitos 😘

    G

  • The Mountain Called “Looking for Work” (And Why I’m Climbing It in Public)

    The Mountain Called “Looking for Work” (And Why I’m Climbing It in Public)

    On layoffs, “Exceeded Expectations,” and the beautifully messy art of figuring out what comes next.

    So here’s the thing nobody tells you about getting laid off: it’s like being dumped, but the breakup text comes from a Zoom meeting and there’s severance paperwork instead of closure.

    In December 2025, my role at Main Street America was eliminated. Not because I sucked at my job—they made that very clear, bless them—but because organizations do what organizations do when budgets get tight. They restructure. They pivot. They eliminate positions. It’s business, never personal, except it always feels personal when you’re the one packing up your digital files and updating your LinkedIn headline at 11pm on a Tuesday.

    Oh, and did I mention? I got “Exceeded Expectations” on my annual review like two months before this happened. So yeah, turns out you can exceed all the expectations and still get shown the door. Capitalism is hilarious like that.

    And now? Now I’m staring at this massive fucking mountain called “looking for work.”

    You know the mountain I’m talking about. It’s the one made of:

    Applications that disappear into the void. You spend three hours tailoring your cover letter, researching the company’s mission statement, making sure your CV tells the exact right story. You hit submit. Crickets. Not even an automated rejection email. Just silence. Did it even arrive? Is there a human on the other end? Or are you just screaming your qualifications into the algorithm abyss?

    The identity crisis. For years, when someone asked what I do, I had an answer. Program Coordinator. Event logistics expert. The person who makes sure 1,000 people get fed at the right time in the right place. Now? “I’m a freelance consultant” feels true but also like I’m trying to convince myself. “I’m between opportunities” sounds like LinkedIn corporate speak. “I’m unemployed but make it fashion” is closer to the truth.

    The financial math that doesn’t math. Freelancing keeps the lights on, but let me tell you, “hustling” hits different when it’s not a side gig but your entire income strategy. You’re juggling client work, applications, networking calls, and somehow also trying to launch other projects because why not add another impossible thing to the pile?

    The emotional whiplash. Monday: “I’m so qualified, someone’s gonna snatch me up any day now.” Wednesday: “Maybe I should just become a full-time plant parent.” Friday: “Actually, I’m building something amazing and this transition is a gift.” Sunday: “LOL what if I never work again?” Repeat weekly.

    The performance of professionalism. You’re supposed to be “networking” but not desperate. Available but not too available. Confident but humble. Bilingual, adaptable, 7+ years of experience coordinating everything from intimate dinners to massive international events, but also somehow entry-level enough to not intimidate hiring managers. It’s exhausting.

    Here’s what I’m learning though, somewhere between application #47 and existential crisis #12:

    This mountain isn’t actually a punishment. It’s a clarifying force.

    When you’re employed, it’s easy to stay comfortable. To not ask if this role actually aligns with where you want to go. To tolerate bullshit because hey, steady paycheck. But when the decision gets made for you? When you’re suddenly forced to articulate your value to strangers over and over? You get real clear, real fast about what you actually want.

    And what I want is this: I want to work with people who value logistics as an art form, who understand that feeding people well is about dignity and culture, not just calories. I want to coordinate programs that matter, events that bring people together, systems that actually work. I want to use my bilingual brain, my hospitality heart, and my operational precision to build something that didn’t exist before I showed up.

    I want to stop performing and start building.

    So yeah, I’m climbing this mountain. Some days I’m sprinting. Some days I’m crawling. Some days I’m sitting down and eating a sandwich halfway up and wondering what the fuck I’m doing. But I’m climbing it in public because I’m done pretending that transitions are supposed to be graceful and linear and Instagram-ready.

    They’re messy. They’re humbling. They’re also kind of hilarious if you squint.

    And here’s the part where I get bold and blunt with you:

    If you’re reading this and you need someone who can manage the impossible, coordinate the chaotic, and do it in two languages with dark humor and zero drama—call me.

    If your organization needs someone who’s produced 50+ cultural events, improved operational efficiency by 30%, and knows how to make magic happen on tight budgets and tighter timelines—seriously, call me.

    If you’re tired of hiring people who talk a big game but can’t actually execute—I’m right here. Let’s talk.

    I’m not just climbing this mountain to get to the other side. I’m climbing it to find the people crazy enough to build something beautiful at the top.

    So. Who’s hiring?

    Graciasss por leerme,

    Besitos 😘

    Génesis 🍒❣️

  • The Life Advice That Made Me Chaos-Proof

    The Life Advice That Made Me Chaos-Proof

    My therapist asked me: “What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?” I laughed. Easy. I have three.

    1. Gabriel García Márquez, king of dramatic love stories:

    “Tell him yes. Even if you’re dying of fear, even if you regret it later. Because if you say no, you will regret it all your life.”

    Basically, the Latino version of YOLO.

    I said yes when I should’ve said “girl, run.”

    I said no when I should’ve said yes.

    Guess what? The nos hurt more.

    Regret doesn’t show up cute—it shows up at 3am with a bottle of pitorro or mi pipa bien paquea, replaying what I didn’t do.

    2. Then there’s the street proverb from abuela’s wisdom:

    “El que se va sin ser echado, vuelve sin ser llamado.”

    If they leave without you kicking them out, they will come back.

    Every. Single. Time.

    Like boomerangs. Or cockroaches.

    3. And then, the surprise one—from Ray Kroc (yeah, the McDonald’s dude):

    “Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.”

    Talent? Nope. Genius? Nah.

    Persistence is basically my first name. Determination is my last name.

    That’s it. That’s the combo. That’s why I keep pushing, even when life feels like a broken ice cream machine at McDonald’s.

    Together, these three advices are my holy trinity of chaos:

    Say yes. Let them come back. And keep going, no matter what.

    So the best advice?

    Say yes, even if you shake.

    Say no, even if you cry.

    If they leave? Sit pretty, they’ll be back.

    And whatever happens—persist. Because that’s the only thing that keeps the story moving.

    Graciass por leerme, y di que sí!

    Génesis ❤️‍🔥❣️

  • 🇵🇪 PeruTina 🇦🇷

    🇵🇪 PeruTina 🇦🇷

    Machu Picchu no nos vio, pero las llamas sí

    Prólogo: yo no estaba invitada 🎬

    La idea original no era mía.

    Andrea y Johncito —su amigo ecuatoriano de AIESEC, que ahora vive en Alemania— planearon un viaje épico por Sudamérica para celebrar su cumpleaños. Yo… bueno, me auto-invité. Porque FOMO es real y, honestamente, qué es la vida sin un poco de caos extra.

    Cusco: entre llamas, colores y pulmones en huelga 🇵🇪

    Primera parada: Cusco.

    Hermosa, mística, con una energía ancestral que te atrapa desde que llegas. Yo, mientras tanto, pensando que me iba a morir.

    La Montaña de los 7 Colores es de esas experiencias que te venden como “inolvidables” y lo fue… pero por las razones equivocadas. Hermosa, sí. Espectacular, también. Pero yo casi dejo los dos pulmones ahí. Tuve que subir en caballo porque mi cuerpo dijo: “hasta aquí llegamos”. Vergüenza nivel leyenda, pero sobreviví. Si no hubiese dejado la nicotina a tiempo, este blog sería póstumo.

    Y las llamas 🦙 … Por favor 🙏🏽

    Divinas. Elegantes. Icónicas.

    Te miran con cara de “yo sé cosas que tú no”. Dato inolvidable: una chica comparó a Andrea con una llama. Yo llorando de la risa. Andrea, no tanto.

    En el Valle Sagrado pedí mis tres deseos. No, no te los voy a contar. Los buenos deseos se guardan.

    Lima: pisco, tiraditos y contrastes 🇵🇪

    Después llegó Lima, y ahí me reconcilié con la vida. Los tiraditos en ají amarillo de La Cura todavía viven en mi cabeza rent free. El pisco… mi nueva religión. Debate cerrado: el pisco es peruano.

    Lima es un choque de realidades: por un lado, la gastronomía más increíble de mi vida; por otro, el contraste brutal de pobreza y desigualdad que te recuerda que no todo es bonito para Instagram.

    Días largos, noches eternas, comida épica.

    Lima fue un abrazo y una cachetada a la vez.

    Un viaje, cinco países y una Amex que nos salvó 🌍✈️

    Cusco vino primero, luego Machu Picchu que nunca nos vio, después Lima, más tarde Buenos Aires, un cameo express en Uruguay y, para rematar, una odisea de layovers en Chile, Colombia y Miami.

    Suena romántico, pero no lo fue: fue caos hermoso.

    Cinco países, dos primas, y una Amex Platinum que básicamente nos salvó la vida. Perú, Machu Picchu, Argentina, Uruguay… y de bonus: Chile, Colombia y Miami en modo “episodio de aeropuerto”.

    Sobrevivimos de lounge en lounge como si fuera deporte extremo.

    Gracias, Amex Platinum, por convertir mi ansiedad en vino y WiFi.

    Johncito: el plot twist ecuatoriano

    Johncito se sumó al viaje desde Alemania, pero es 100% ecuatoriano, y llegó como personaje de serie:

    Siempre feliz, siempre chill, siempre diciendo “tranqui, no pasa nada” mientras Andrea y yo debatíamos si matarnos o abrazarnos.

    El tipo parecía tener un botón secreto para cambiar el mood: un chiste, un pisco, un brindis, y la tensión desaparecía. Gracias a él, muchas peleas terminaron en risas…O en pisco. O en ambas.

    Buenos Aires: rock, alfajores y la hermana perdida 🇦🇷

    La ciudad, TODO. La comida… meh. Lo siento, Argentina, alguien tenía que decirlo. Excepto por los alfajores, el gelato de pistacho y los desayunos eternos: joyas, patrimonio emocional. Buenos Aires vibra distinto: calles que respiran música, bares que parecen escenarios, paredes que gritan rock. Ahora entiendo por qué han salido tantas y tantas bandas de rock. Fuimos al party más lindo de todos: Bresh. Y aunque no lo crean fui la primera en irse a dormir!!!

    Y ahí llegó otro plot twist: conocimos a Geo, nuestra lost sister. Literalmente parecía que la hubiéramos conocido de toda la vida. Se integró al viaje como si siempre hubiera estado ahí. Cero filtros. Amor instantáneo.

    La gente… puro East Coast vibes: arrogantes, sí. Opinados, obvio. Pero cuando te adoptan, te aman fuerte. Te insultan, te invitan un Fernet y te abrazan después.

    Perfecto.

    Uruguay: cameo express 🇺🇾

    Un solo día en Colonia del Sacramento y ya. Calles tranquilas, vibe slow, tiempo detenido. Yo, mientras tanto, sobreviviendo un dolor que, con mis seis años de la universidad Grey’s Anatomy, diagnostiqué como vesícula colapsando. Si me iba a morir, que fuera con esa vista.

    Layovers y lounges: Amex Platinum supremacy 🛫

    Chile. Colombia. Miami.

    Aeropuertos que podrían demandarme por stalking. Sobrevivimos de lounge en lounge, alimentadas por vinito, WiFi, café gratis y las bendiciones de la Amex Platinum. Reina, te debo la vida.

    Andrea, mi prima, mi hermana 👯‍♀️🧩

    Andrea y yo nos criamos juntas, pero este viaje…

    Uff.

    Aprendí lo que realmente significa ser hermanas: Pelear hasta que el silencio duela. Reconciliarnos porque nadie más entiende el chiste interno. Y amarla más fuerte que nunca. La vi en su elemento, brava, libre, rodeada de amigos, siendo la más valiente de todas. Y sí, también me regaló la frase más icónica del viaje: “Y ese culo tuyo… woah.”

    Clásico Andrea.

    Machu Picchu no nos vio🦙

    No llegamos.

    Pero las risas no faltaron.

    Las llamas sí nos vieron.

    Y, honestamente, eso vale más.

    Gracias por leerme ❣️

    Génesis

  • Home / Home

    Home / Home

    Entre islas y lagos, aprendí que puedo pertenecer a dos mundos sin pedir permiso.

    Me fui una adolescente de Puerto Rico,

    con las rodillas llenas de arena

    y el corazón lleno de “algún día”.

    Pero Chicago…

    Chicago me hizo mujer.

    Aquí aprendí a caerme en el frío,

    a romperme y a armarme,

    a inventarme desde cero

    mientras el viento me cortaba la cara

    y el tren me enseñaba a no perderme.

    Puerto Rico es casa —

    el olor a café,

    la brisa que me reconoce por nombre.

    Pero Chicago… Chicago is home.

    Aquí descubrí mi voz,

    mi fuego,

    mi hambre por más.

    Y aunque mis pies bailan entre islas y lagos,

    I know this —

    mi casa siempre tendrá dos direcciones,

    dos acentos,

    dos cielos donde mi alma cabe completa.

    Gracias por leerme,

    Génesis ❣️❤️‍🔥

  • Entre Vecinos y Silencio

    Entre Vecinos y Silencio

    Un amor no dicho. Un casi que nunca fue.

    Éramos vecinos,

    pero la distancia siempre vivió entre nosotros.

    Amigos desde que la vida apenas empezaba,

    y aún así, nunca dijimos

    lo que nos quemaba la lengua.

    Miedo.

    Vergüenza.

    O tal vez cobardía.

    Todo eso nos comió las palabras.

    Hoy, el silencio pesa más que tu voz.

    No me hablas,

    y yo muero cada noche

    esperando que tu nombre

    encienda mi pantalla.

    Te pienso en el eco

    de todo lo que no dijimos.

    Te extraño en un idioma

    que nadie traduce.

    Y aunque me jure que lo superé,

    mi dedo sigue temblando

    sobre tu chat vacío.

    No es que te ame…

    es que me duele

    no haberte amado.

    Gracias x leerme 💖🔥

    Génesis

  • 2024: The Year I Got Thrown in the Blender and Somehow Came Out Shining

    2024: The Year I Got Thrown in the Blender and Somehow Came Out Shining

    This year taught me a new word: lifequake. You know, one of those big, seismic shifts that makes you question every decision, belief, and coping mechanism you’ve ever trusted. It sounds poetic, doesn’t it? But living through one? It feels less like a beautiful metaphor and more like being thrown into a blender—spinning, crashing, and colliding with all your fears, failures, and unresolved traumas. And yet, somehow, when the chaos stops, what comes out is smoother, brighter, and… alive.

    2024 did exactly that to me. It stripped me bare, tore down all the masks I had spent years building, and left me standing in front of a version of myself I didn’t even know existed. Growth doesn’t look like they sell it in self-help books. It’s not graceful or linear. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. Sometimes, it’s me whispering, “¿Y ahora qué hago?” because I didn’t have a clue what to do next.

    But when life hits you this hard—when you lose more than you gain, when the goodbyes outnumber the hellos, and when people leave without so much as a hug—you realize something: There’s no script. We’re all improvising. We don’t understand this life, not really. We just know we’re here, for now, trying to make sense of the chaos.

    So why not play with it? Challenge your reality. Believe in what feels good, what feels expansive—whether that’s God, the universe, angels, or your own gut telling you, “Sí, esto es.” Jump out of the box. Dance even if they look at you funny. Laugh too loud. Cry when you need to. This life is insane, yes, but it’s yours. Don’t waste it trying to fit a mold someone else made.

    Because 2024 didn’t just break me; it remade me. It taught me that losing parts of yourself isn’t always a tragedy. Sometimes, it’s the exact miracle you didn’t know you needed. It taught me that being “in between” isn’t failure—it’s where the magic happens.

    As we close this year, I don’t have answers. But I have myself, and for the first time, that feels like enough. I’ll leave you with this: surrender. Let go of the need to control or fix everything. Life is already happening, whether you fight it or flow with it. Believe in it. Believe in everything.

    2024 was the year life threw me in the blender. And somehow, I came out shining.

    Gracias totales x leerme este año!

    Besitos y un abrazote,

    Génesis 😽❣️❤️‍🔥

  • Navidad: Where Puerto Rican Christmas TKO’s American Holidays

    Navidad: Where Puerto Rican Christmas TKO’s American Holidays

    Puerto Rican Christmas isn’t just a celebration—it’s a cultural smackdown.

    Listen, it’s not just Christmas. In Puerto Rico, it’s Navidad. A season so long it makes American Christmas look like it left the party early. If you’re picturing a Hallmark-movie Christmas—snowflakes, eggnog, and polite carolers—let me stop you right there. Puerto Rican Navidad is more like an asopao-fueled boxing match where we shout, “¡Dame mi aguinaldo o te tumbo la puerta!”

    The picture above? That’s exactly the vibe. Navidad Puertorriqueña is Rocky Balboa. Navidad Americana? Ivan Drago—big, loud, but ultimately meh compared to our flavor.

    Here’s why our holiday punches land harder:

    1. Season-Length Flex

    In the U.S., Christmas ends when the last gift is unwrapped. In Puerto Rico, la Navidad starts the second your abuela says, “Vamos a hacer pasteles,” and ends well into January with Las Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián. That’s nearly TWO MONTHS of food, rum, and borderline chaos. “Navidad Americana” just isn’t built for that stamina.

    2. Midnight Madness: Parrandas Aren’t for the Weak

    Caroling is cute. A parranda? That’s guerrilla warfare with instruments. Picture this: a horde of your loudest cousins showing up uninvited at midnight, armed with maracas, güiros, and la plena. You’re obligao to wake up, dance, and feed them lechón. You think Mariah Carey has stamina? Let me see her handle a parranda marathon until dawn.

    3. Food Smackdown

    American Christmas dinner might have ham and mashed potatoes, but Puerto Rico brings lechón asado, arroz con gandules, pasteles, tembleque, and pitorro to the table. We’re not just eating; we’re feasting like our ancestors demand it. Every bite of a pastel is a tiny victory over bland casseroles everywhere.

    4. PR Jingles: Beats That’ll Make Mariah Retire

    Sure, “Jingle Bells” is catchy, but have you ever screamed “BOMBAZO NAVIDEÑO 2” or ”¡Traigo esta trulla para que te levantes!” with a full band backing you up? Or danced “Feliz Navidad” by José Feliciano until your feet begged for mercy? American jingles don’t stand a chance against the fire of Puerto Rican plenas navideñas.

    5. Pitorro & Coquito > Eggnog

    Eggnog? That’s milk pretending to be festive. Coquito is a full-on coconut rum celebration in a bottle. And if you’re feeling brave, there’s pitorro—Puerto Rican moonshine so strong it could power a parranda. It’s not just a drink; it’s an experience. You take a sip, and suddenly, your tío is telling you stories you didn’t ask for, and your tía is challenging you to a domino match. Eggnog wishes it had that kind of energy.

    6. Burn Baby Burn: Kicking Off the New Year, Boricua Style

    While Americans are throwing glittery New Year’s parties, Puerto Ricans are out here BURNING STUFF. We’re talking muñecos (life-sized dolls) stuffed with old clothes, set ablaze to symbolize leaving the bad vibes behind. It’s cathartic, primal, and just chaotic enough to remind everyone why we’re undefeated in holiday spirit. And don’t forget the 12 grapes at midnight—because what’s a new year without choking on luck?

    Puerto Rican Navidad doesn’t just celebrate; it transforms. From pitorro-fueled storytelling to watching Año Viejo go up in flames, every moment is unforgettable. It’s not just Christmas—it’s a championship season, and we stay undefeated.

    ¡Boricua hasta la muerte, aunque naciera en la luna!

    Graciasss x leerme 🙏🏽
    Génesis 😽❣️

    Soy más feliz en el campo rodeada de pitorros
  • La gente sabe lo que hay.

    La gente sabe lo que hay.

    Autenticidad sobre aprobación.

    My therapist threw me this prompt as homework this week: “What do you hope people say about you?” Y honestamente, me quedé pensando en esto por días. Porque sí, uno siempre quiere que hablen bien de uno, pero ¿qué es lo que realmente quiero que se lleven de mí?

    Quiero que cuando alguien hable de mí, digan algo tipo, “Wow, es súper determinada.” Que sepan que si digo que voy a hacer algo, voy con todo, pase lo que pase. Persistent y stubborn, pero de esa stubbornness que te lleva a donde quieres llegar.

    Y más allá de eso, quiero que digan, “She’s so thoughtful.” Como que esa amiga que siempre se acuerda de tu cumple, que te manda un mensaje random porque se acordó de algo que te gusta, o que simplemente escucha. Pero escuchar de verdad, ¿sabes? No para responder rápido, sino para entenderte, para sentirte. Porque hay una diferencia brutal entre escuchar pa’ contestar y escuchar pa’ estar ahí contigo.

    No sé, siento que a veces lo que más importa son esos small details. Esos que mucha gente se olvida porque el día a día los consume. Yo quiero ser esa persona que, en el caos, no olvida. Que si una vez me dijiste que te encanta el café con canela, ya tú sabes que la próxima vez que te invite a un cafecito, eso es lo que va a haber.

    También espero que la gente diga, “She’s kind.” Pero no el kind de ‘ay, qué cute.’ No. El kind que siente, que se preocupa, que hace. Porque kindness sin acción es solo un vibe, y yo quiero ser mucho más que eso. Quiero que mi kindness se sienta en la forma en que te trato, en cómo hago espacio para ti, en cómo te hago sentir genuina.

    Al final del día, quiero que lo que digan de mí sea algo que tú recuerdes con una sonrisa en la cara. Algo que no sea flashy ni loud, pero que sea real. Que te haga pensar, “She showed up for me. She was always consistent, She made me feel seen.”

    Porque para mí, siempre será autenticidad sobre aprobación.

    Lo que ves es lo que hay.

    Graciasss por leerme

    Génesis ❣️😽

  • Ode to My Most Expensive Misstep (aka ATX)

    Ode to My Most Expensive Misstep (aka ATX)

    How a year in Austin emptied my wallet but filled my soul—one expensive decision at a time.

    Here’s to the year I kissed my savings goodbye—
    Austin, you glorious trap, you whispered, “Come on in,”

    I came with four suitcases, one bag, and a whole lot of nothing else, ready to start from scratch, but

    Turns out, self-discovery has a price tag, and it’s not on sale. But oh, I was resilient! Who needs a solid financial plan, when you’ve got city lights, tacos, and a deep conversation with your own reflection?

    And let’s not forget my apartment.
    My first place, my own little sanctuary—
    Decorated exactly how I dreamed it, because hey,
    When you’ve been waiting 29 years to make a space your own, why not go big?
    (Especially on groceries you’ll never cook.)
    I mean, sure, my “taste” could drain a trust fund (that I don’t have). Hello, HEB—Whole Foods may be from Texas, but nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to you.

    Oh, and Austin itself? Let’s be real—it’s a suburb playing dress-up,
    Trying so hard to be a big city.
    But I loved you anyway, with all your wannabe hustle and charm.
    Your skyline, though? You can’t fool me.
    I know you cry when you see the OG: Chicago.
    Let’s be honest—The Independent is cute,
    But next to those Chicago giants, you’re just a little bro in the shadow.

    You took my money and my sense,
    But gave me a strange, deep love for starting over.
    For building something out of nothing,
    For embracing the ridiculous beauty of it all,
    Even if it meant splurging on things I never knew I needed.

    I’ll keep the memories, the tacos, and a very cute (and very overpriced) apartment
    As a souvenir of that wild ride

    So cheers to you, Austin,
    And cheers to me, for surviving you    .

    Thank you for reading,
    Besiss🥰,
    Génesis     ❤️‍🔥🔥