Latine Heritage Month starts tomorrow, and I want to begin by talking about something that feels very Latina-coded to me: pride.

Not only pride in our culture, our language, and where we come from. I’m talking about that other kind of pride, the “I cannot ask anyone for help” kind.

I don’t know whether this is a Dominican thing, a Latina thing, or simply a me thing. But I know where part of it began.

My grandmother, who I call Mamá, raised me in the Dominican Republic. When I came to the United States, I lived with my biological mother, who I call Mami. During that time in my preteen childhood, she told me something along the lines of, “Nobody wants to be burdened with your shit.”

I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but I remember how those words made me feel.

I thought, “Oh, shit. I don’t want to put anything else on someone’s shoulders.”

I immediately felt guilty about adding a burden to someone else.

That belief got into my psyche and stayed there.

I already knew I had trouble asking for help. What I didn’t realize was how deeply I had also internalized the idea that expressing a need, or even telling someone what I wanted, made me a burden.

It can be something as simple as paying for a product or service that doesn’t meet the promised criteria. Instead of reaching out and saying, “Hey, this isn’t what I expected. Could you please fix it or give me more information?” my first instinct is to take the loss.

Just take the L.

Accept what I received. Swallow my disappointment. Keep the unhappiness with me rather than risk inconveniencing someone else by speaking up.

And that is so wrong.

I have done this for almost my entire life, and only now am I making a conscious effort to change it. Sometimes I have to give myself an entire motivational speech before sending a simple message:

“You paid for this.”

“You are not being rude.”

“You are allowed to ask questions.”

“You are allowed to request a correction.”

“You are allowed to say this isn’t what you wanted.”

Even after I send the politest message imaginable, I still feel guilty. But when I remain silent, I don’t sleep well because the situation stays in the back of my mind. I’m upset with the other person, but I’m also upset with myself because I didn’t say what I needed to say.

All of that stems from the belief that nobody wants to be burdened with my shit, so I should carry it alone.

That belief is pervasive and damaging.

When I say I put my real shit into my books, this is what I mean. I place these struggles inside my characters. Then, when I see Marisol making herself smaller, refusing help, or believing she must carry everything alone, I think, “Oh, my God. That’s horrible. Why is she doing that to herself?”

And then I realize: Girl, you do that too.

Writing gives me a mirror. Watching my characters confront these patterns helps me recognize and slowly work through them in myself.

I don’t know whether extreme self-sufficiency is universally Latina-coded, but I have seen it throughout our communities. We can be so determined to handle everything ourselves that we refuse help until our mental and physical health begins to suffer.

We take it. We swallow it. We keep moving.

But there is a difference between being capable and believing you are never allowed to need anyone.

So, during Latine Heritage Month, I want to celebrate the beautiful parts of our cultures, but I also want to examine some of the things we inherited that may no longer be serving us.

I’m proud of my culture. I’m proud of where I come from. And I’m also learning that honoring my heritage does not require me to preserve every survival mechanism handed down to me.

Some things deserve to be celebrated.

Some things deserve to be healed.

And apparently, before I can celebrate, I need to examine what I must heal.