Childhood in Colombia is rarely a solitary experience. Homes are vibrant, multi-generational sanctuaries filled with the constant chatter of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. From a young age, a little girl learns that family is the ultimate anchor.
From our backyard, I could see the mountains shift from green to black as the sun set. My father used to point to the far peaks and say, “ Allá hay culebras y guerrilleros ” (There are snakes and guerrillas over there). For us, the wilderness was not a place for hiking or recreation; it was a mystery, a boundary. We respected the mountain with a fear that bordered on religious reverence. A walk to the corner store wasn’t just a chore; it was a negotiation with the neighborhood dogs, the uneven cobblestones, and the stray motorbikes that whizzed past without mufflers.
the geography itself was a character in my story. I grew up in the foothills of the Andes, where the mornings were cool enough to need a thin jacket, but by noon, the sun was a hammer. The house where I lived had a courtyard filled with helechos (ferns) and a single, stubborn arrayán tree that my mother said had been there since she was a girl. as a little girl growing up in colombia
We dreamed in two languages, even if we didn't speak English yet. We dreamed of becoming engineers like the guys on the mountain, but we were told to be secretaries. We dreamed of traveling the world, but we were told to get married at 18.
The day for a little girl in Colombia often begins with the sound of the tinto (coffee) pot whistling and the rhythmic "clap-clap" of hands forming arepas in the kitchen. Breakfast isn’t just a meal; it’s a ritual. Whether you are in the chilly highlands of Bogotá, wrapped in a wool ruana , or on the humid Caribbean coast in Cartagena, the morning starts with the warmth of family. Childhood in Colombia is rarely a solitary experience
But here is what I also learned: resilience is not a grand speech. It is my mother waking up at 4 AM to sell empanadas at the bus terminal so I could have a new notebook. It is my abuela turning a single chicken into a three-course meal (soup, main, and fricasé leftovers). It is every costeño on the Caribbean coast laughing harder than anyone else the day after a hurricane.
To have grown up is to carry a dual citizenship for life: one for the country on the map, and one for the country inside your bones. It is to know that joy and sorrow are not opposites but dance partners. It is to understand that the most revolutionary act is to laugh with your whole body after crying with your whole soul. From our backyard, I could see the mountains
School life is structured and often involves wearing uniforms, emphasizing discipline and belonging. In the afternoons, streets and parks come alive with children playing fútbol , hopscotch, or chatting on street corners.
Early mornings do not begin with the harsh buzz of an alarm clock. Instead, they begin with the call of street vendors shouting "¡Mazamorra!" or "¡Aguacate maduro!" down the cobblestone streets or high-rise avenues. From a young age, a girl learns to distinguish the rhythm of salsa, vallenato, and cumbia drifting from a neighbor’s open window. Music is not background noise; it is the heartbeat of the home.
