Wannabe

My deepest birthday wish

On April 28th, I completed my 37th trip around the sun. This one felt different—faster, but more turbulent than the rest, and with not nearly enough free snacks.

In the days leading up to my birthday, I felt, paradoxically, both completely indifferent ("Is this part of getting old?", I wondered) and also uncontrollably eager to live out my wildest dreams ("What did you want to be when you grew up?").

Well, at 8 years old, I wanted to be Sporty Spice. What girl growing up in the ’90s didn’t want to be part of the group? But Sporty stood out to me because she wasn’t like the others. She rocked Adidas track pants, wore minimal makeup, had an arm tatt, and made a living hyping up crowds while busting out push-ups on stage. I think it’s safe to say I lived out my version of that dream. P.S. Even though I turned into a Hip-Hop head, “Wannabe” will forever be the only song I know all the lyrics to. Sorry, Biggie.

At 15, I wanted to be a Professional Hip-Hop Dancer. I had just left Costa Rica for the U.S., and though I didn’t realize it at the time, dance became my coping mechanism through the transition and culture shock. My mentor explained to me that Hip-Hop was created by Black and Latino youth who felt they didn’t have a place in society, so they created a culture and home for themselves. Hip-Hop didn’t just change my life; it saved it. And while I never made it to New York or L.A., I spent the next two decades learning, performing, teaching, and creating @hiphoppopup—a space where others could feel that same sense of belonging.

At 24, I wanted to be a Famous Fitness Trainer. I had fallen in love with a new way of moving—different from dance, but just as beautiful and powerful in the way it made me feel: unstoppable and seen. I wanted to bring that feeling to as many people as possible. When I was approached by some big names in the industry, I naively thought stardom was the only way I could make an impact. Having each of those doors close bruised my ego at first, but I soon realized that what I already had—my community—was more important than anything else. I was making an impact. My proudest achievement will always be the many people I’ve been able to empower, even in the tiniest way. If that’s you, reading this, thank you for trusting in me and allowing me to be part of your journey. P.S. I still think you’re a badass.

At 36, I just wanted to be Me again. After 12 years in the fitness industry, another 10 in the dance world, and 22 years away from home, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I had lost touch with the 8-year-old version of me, belting lyrics at the top of her lungs, laughing and playing joyously. I had lost touch with the 15-year-old version, who lit up on stage and moved through life unapologetically. I had even lost touch with the 24-year-old version, who loved to lift heavy, hit PRs, and teach others to do the same. I was working too much, barely sleeping or eating, and pushing through injuries just to keep up with industry standards and expectations. I was seeing family less. I was forgetting Spanish, my first language. I was letting my culture and identity slip through my tired, calloused hands.

I didn’t know who I was—and worst of all, I didn’t love who I was.

I think you all know what happened next (and if you don’t but want to, feel free to read my first blog post). But here’s the punchline: I left everything I had—and hurt people I cared about—to save myself.

I’ve spent the last 365+ days learning lessons in self-trust and self-love. I’ve cried most of those days, questioned all of my choices, and let anxiety envelop me whole. But I’ve also grown, laughed, healed, deeply connected with others, fallen back in love with dancing, teaching—and yes, I’ve even belted “Wannabe” at the top of my lungs. Every. Last. Word.

So what do I wannabe at 37? Who else lives in this body of mine?

I know there’s:
 An Artist itching to create.
 An Athlete eager to learn new skills.
 A Successful Businesswoman ready to launch a tool to help as many people as she can.
 An Adventurous Child begging to surf, skate, and play in the waves.

And there are also all the Past Versions of Me—proud of everything I’ve become, holding my hand as I learn to love myself again, and hyping me up (Sporty-Spice-style, of course) to become Everything I Know I Can Be.

Weathering the Storm:

Life lessons awaiting a tropical cyclone

Today marks one month since my departure from the US and my return to Costa Rica. It’s been a whirlwind of experiences so far — some magically beautiful, some scarily dark— all of which provided lessons that led me here: grateful, growing, and a tiny bit closer to rediscovering the home around me, and within me. 

It feels good to be back in Costa Rica’s warm, jungle rain and to hear its cacophonous patter on tin roofs. To exchange smiles and “pura vidas” as I walk through town. To start my morning with a heaping plate of rice & beans and fresh fruit, and to let the pace of my day be governed by nothing else but the ocean tides and early sunsets. 

Here, I am challenged to slow down and let go—one of Costa Rica’s most valuable lessons, especially for someone like me. 

I have always craved structure, stability and control in what happens next. (For all my astrology peeps— yes, I am a Taurus.)  In Boston, this was only heightened by the hustle of city life, the grind of the fitness industry and the “never stop” mentality of entrepreneurship. I lived in survival mode. I felt safe being unsafe. 

When I would visit home, it would take me almost my entire trip to adjust, to de-program. To accept that stores may close at random times of the day because they choose to, that the power will undoubtedly cut out with no expected time of being reset, and that (for beach life in particular) nature rules all. I’d finally get to a point where I was able to let go, to regulate my nervous system, to teach myself that feeling grounded, at peace and in flow with the pace of the universe is where I am safest. 

But then I’d jump right back into my old life and my false beliefs that the more I could accomplish in a single day, the happier and safer I would be.

So here I am again, unlearning and relearning, and hopefully for the last time.

This morning I woke up with the sun — and not a buzzing alarm clock like I would have before. Win. 

I nuzzled my hot cup of coffee and journaled — instead of inhaling the cup as I rush out the door to be at work by 4:30am. Another win.

I then wrote my incredibly unrealistic daily To Do list. — Hmm. 

As I said, I’m still learning. But, oh my gawwwd, do I love a To Do list.  In fact, I’ve been making them since I learned to write. My family still jokes at one that read:

1. Wake up

2. Pee

3. Eat a carrot

Honestly, a pretty solid start to any day. But my point is, I’ve always, always, needed structure. 

Fast forward 30-something years. The To-Do list I had written out for MY LIFE? Yeah, I lit that shit on fire. (And if you don’t know why — go read my first post). I now have no plan, I have no structure, I have no stability and, worst of all, I have to learn to be ok with that. 

So back to this morning. 

My eyes scrolled down my lengthy To Do list but then immediately darted to the lengthier list of notifications blowing up my phone. “Emergency Code Red”,  they all started. 

They explained that the entire Pacific coast of Costa Rica —and specifically the area I am currently living — is expected to be hit by a tropical cyclone over the next 7 days. I then lost wifi. And then lost power. 

*deep breath* 

The jungle rain I knew so well had taken a turn these last few days, so there was talk about this occurring. I had listened and packed up all my stuff. But with the recent flooding, road closures and canceled flights, there was no leaving town. My only option was to find a place to stay that was farther from the ocean and in no danger of landslides. I found one. I moved in. I had a plan and I accomplished it. 

With shelter, friends on speed-dial and plenty of snacks, there’s only one thing left to do: let go. I can’t reset the fallen power lines. I can’t reconnect the wifi. And I most definitely can’t control a cyclone. So the items on my list will not get done, not today, probably not tomorrow, and perhaps not for the next week as I wait for this to safely pass. All I can do is stay calm in the storm.

And as I continue on this journey of self-discovery and self-trust, I have to remind myself that no matter how much I try to control the uncontrollable, no matter how much I fight against forces stronger than myself, no matter how strongly those ingrained behaviors want me to believe I’m safest in the panic, I am actually, in this storm and in all the others life throws my way, safest, and strongest, in the surrender.

The Breaking Point

Why I decided to uproot my life

for the unknown

I had a vibrant community of hundreds, a booming business, a six-figure dream job and the most supportive and loving relationship of my life. I had it all. 

And I gave it all away. 

One day, I made the decision to quit my job, end my relationship, and leave the city I had worked so hard to call my own. It wasn’t to travel the world, or for a fancy job opportunity in a new state, or even to be reunited with family I’ve lived apart from for the majority of my life. I know for sure it wasn’t to be where I am right now: alone, living back in my mom’s 1-bedroom apartment, unemployed, completely broke, and physically sick from anxiety and depression. 

So again, why did I do it?

The truth is, I’m still looking for the answer. But I know this much: somewhere in the last 22 years of trying to find myself, I lost myself. 

At 14-years-old I immigrated from Costa Rica to the US. I was a powerless child begging a broken system to acknowledge me, accept me, and see me. I spent over a decade in the fight: blood tests, medical exams, interviews and endless legal documentation to both prove my identity while seemingly trying to convince the system to dispose of it and give me a new one. After a fight that long and conflicting, victory can still feel like failure.

In high school the fight continued. I was constantly adjusting to seem “Latina enough” for this person while hiding my accent to make another feel more comfortable. I juggled between being “American Jessie” and “Latina Jessie” and, as more and more time passed between visits home, and my accent faded away, I felt as though I could no longer call myself the latter.

In college I found solace in dance and in hip-hop—a way of communicating that had no accents, no identifying slang, no prejudice, within a culture that was created by those who felt they didn’t belong. I immersed myself fully, honored to be learning and experiencing a culture so different from my own, yet so comforting. The wood studio floors and the bodies that sprung across them became my home and my family. I had found my passion for movement and for teaching and was happy being “Hip-Hop Dancer Jessie”. That was, until a senior-year professor made it his personal goal to crush my new-found joy. After countless episodes of him mocking me in front of my peers, berating my dance performances and post-class emails telling me how embarrassed I must feel being a “white woman trying to claim a place in hip-hop”, I started to believe him. (Mind you, this professor was white, but that’s a story for another time).

With his mission complete, I never felt at home in a dance class again. 

I moved to Boston and started working in fitness. And, to my surprise, I absolutely loved it. It lit me up, it gave me purpose and it was the closest thing I felt to dancing. I was good at it, too. I was liked, I was valued, I was accepted. “Trainer Jessie” was born.

I clung onto her tightly, afraid to lose an identity that finally allowed me to belong while helping others feel that they belonged, as well. I poured every ounce of my being into teaching: I skipped meals, sleep, events and family trips to teach all hours of the day in all modalities. I also turned a blind eye to the injustices and hypocrisy of the industry (another story for a different time) because I told myself I could tolerate it all as long as it meant I could have my 50 mins a day to feel like I mattered. 

There was no stop button for me. 

Until there was. Twelve years in, my body (and mind) called it quits. I suffered a debilitating hip injury and the depression I had fought so long to hide, took over me. I took a leave from work and spent the next 7 months on the couch. I stared at the ceiling and thought, “If I am no longer “Trainer Jessie”, then who was I?”

Who am I?

That’s the real question I’m trying to answer. 

I believe the wounds of these experiences are lessons that brought me to that day. The day I finally realized I could no longer force myself into yet another mold in search of the real me. The day I recognized I’ve tried so hard to be seen by others that I’ve neglected seeing myself. The day I accepted I can’t truly move forward in my life and be the best instructor, friend, sister, daughter, partner and version of myself, if I didn’t make a drastic change.

So I walked away. From my safe and stable life, from the people I love the most, and from everything I have built. I am choosing now, as painful as it is, to walk into my own shadows, to do the work to know myself better, to forgive myself, and to discover who I truly am— so I can be her and love her. 

The path back to myself is windy and bumpy (so it’s only fitting that I’m choosing to start it in Costa Rica) but I am hopeful it is the right one.

And if you’re willing to join me on it, I’d love the company.

-Jessie