As A Little Girl Growing Up — In Colombia ^new^

But now you know. That little girl is the blueprint. She is the coffee in the pot, the rhythm in the hips, and the fire in the throat. Colombia is a country, but for that little girl, it was the whole universe—loud, fragrant, complicated, and impossibly vibrant. Y nunca se le olvida. (And she never forgets it.)

As a little girl growing up in Colombia, the world felt like a perpetual carnival painted in the three primary colors of our flag: the deep blue of the endless Pacific sky, the bright yellow of the成熟的 guayaba (guava) sun, and the passionate red of the novelas my grandmother watched religiously every afternoon. To be a little girl in Colombia is not merely to experience a childhood; it is to be baptized into a rich, chaotic, and deeply sensory symphony where the magical realism of Gabriel García Márquez isn't a genre—it's a documentary.

The music was omnipresent. From the open windows of tiendas (corner stores), Carlos Vives or Shakira (pre-global megastardom) spilled onto the pavement. On weekends, there was la plancha —the moment when Dad pulled out the ancient vinyl record of Diomedes Díaz . you didn’t just listen to vallenato ; you felt it in your bones. You learned to dance cumbia with your cousins, swaying your skirt in a circle to mimic the flowing river. You learned that rhythm is not a skill; it is an inheritance. The Grandmothers and the Novelas The most powerful force in the Colombian household, however, is the matriarch. As a little girl growing up in Colombia, your abuela (grandmother) was a healer, a judge, and a historian. She knew which herb ( matica ) cured a stomach ache and which remedio chased away the evil eye ( mal de ojo ). as a little girl growing up in colombia

you internalize that you are made of the same stuff as the mountains (the Andes) and the same flow as the rivers (the Amazon). You are a product of mestizaje —the mixing of Indigenous endurance, Spanish structure, and African rhythm. The Nostalgia of Exile and Return Today, many of those little girls are grown women scattered across Miami, Madrid, or New York. Yet, as a little girl growing up in Colombia remains a core identity, a sensory home they carry in their hand luggage. They chase that feeling in a can of Jugos Hit , in a WhatsApp voice note from abuela , or in the smell of guava paste melting on pastry.

This article explores the unique texture of that upbringing, from the scent of arepas on a charcoal grill to the rhythm of vallenato drifting through an open window. As a little girl growing up in Colombia, your day never begins with an alarm clock. It begins with the tierra (earth). If you lived in the Eje Cafetero (Coffee Axis), you woke to the smell of wet soil and parchment coffee drying on clay patios. In the bustling capital of Bogotá, you woke to the tiple (a small guitar-like instrument) of a street vendor selling pan de yuca or almojábanas . But now you know

You learned that life is fragile. You learned this at the velorio (wake) of a cousin, where the family gathered not just to cry, but to sing and drink coffee and tell jokes about the deceased. you learned that joy and grief are not opposites; they are two sides of the same shiny peso coin. Coming of Age in a Land of Superlatives To grow up female in Colombia is to inherit a legacy of berraquera —a word that means toughness, gumption, and the refusal to quit. You look at your mother, who can cook a feast for twenty, negotiate prices with a truck driver, and do her makeup in a five-minute taxi ride. You look at the vendedoras ambulantes (street vendors) carrying fifty pounds of fruit on their heads, walking barefoot in the rain, laughing.

Breakfast was a ritual of efficiency and love. My mother would slice a arepa —crunchy on the outside, soft and buttery on the inside—and top it with hogao (a slow-cooked tomato and onion sauce) or a crumble of suero costeño . you learned quickly that food is the love language. A bandeja paisa wasn't just a plate; it was a declaration of abundance: beans, rice, chicharrón, avocado, fried egg, and plantain all fighting for space on a single platter. The Soundtrack of the Barrio Every afternoon, as a little girl growing up in Colombia, the street became a stage. The barrio (neighborhood) was an extension of the living room. We played escondidas (hide and seek) until the streetlights flickered on, and we jumped triple (jump rope) while singing clapping rhymes that varied from one block to the next. Colombia is a country, but for that little

Because to have been a little girl in Colombia is to understand that life is beautiful precisely because it is hard. It is to know that the best arepa is the one made by hand, that the best dance is the one where you stumble, and that the best song is the one that makes you cry while you smile. As a little girl growing up in Colombia, you didn't know you were being forged. You thought everyone lived with the tremor of tierra under their feet. You thought every child understood that a buñuelo fixes a broken heart and that rain is just an excuse to dance inside.