I have been telling stories for as long as I can remember. As the second of four sisters (the eldest was already busy being the perfect ballerina); I took the role of director, writer, and set designer. I’d turn blankets into castles, chairs into ships, and my younger sisters into characters in my imaginary worlds. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was already staging scenes, developing plots, and crafting the foundations of what would become a lifelong, on-again off-again love affair.

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My mother was a journalist and writer who owned a bookstore that was bombed after it became a hub for political meetings and human rights activism. Even as a child, I understood that speaking up, writing, having a voice, could be dangerous. I grew up literally surrounded by books, fascinated by stories. I loved words, but I also held them in reverence, knowing their power to shape lives, shift realities, and, in cases like ours, put them at risk.

 

In the safety of our home in Brazil during exile, I began to shape my own relationship with language. One that was freer, more playful, more experimental. I learned to read and write in Portuguese, and with it came a whole new set of words to name things that, until then, had remained unspoken. Like 'saudade', that quiet, aching presence of what’s absent. The subtle texture that permeated those years of missing family and feeling uprooted.

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Back in Argentina, I struggled to find my vocation. Sometimes it takes a while to realize that what you’re trying to become is what you already are. I studied Communications, then Literature, but never finished either. Latin and Greek were a buzzkill. Before writing became my central form of expression, I explored photography, music, and just about anything that sparked my curiosity. Maybe I’m a late bloomer, or  just relentlessly curious.

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​Raised in a home of intellectuals, our dinner table conversations flowed from Borges to Barthes, from Cortázar to Umberto Eco. Language, meaning, structure, metaphor, the architecture of story, was everywhere. But it wasn’t until I went to film school that I understood what I’d been chasing all along: a way to give life to my imagination. Scripts, short films, documentaries; each a thread woven through the same fabric, all leading back to the same impulse: to tell a story.

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I write to alchemize pain into poetry, grief into something that breathes beauty, impatience into presence. I write not to make sense of what hurts, but to sit with the truth that sometimes, it simply doesn’t. 

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For years, I didn’t know if I was really a writer. (I think most writers ask themselves that at some point). But the truth is a writer is someone who writes. And I’ve never stopped writing. As someone who has spent most of my life running, I now write to remember the things I no longer need (or wish) to escape from.

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This is how I stay real. How I stay true. Everything is a story.