The soundtrack to this childhood is distinct. It isn't silence. It is the blare of Vallenato or Cumbia from a speaker that seems to be always on. It is the sound of her mother or grandmother shouting from the kitchen, calling the family to eat. It is the roar of the river and the distant sound of a neighbor’s horse. She learns to love the outdoors not as a pristine playground, but as a wild, living part of her heritage.
Colombia is a land of striking geographical contrasts. Depending on where a little girl’s story unfolds, her playground might be the towering, snow-capped peaks of the Andes, the humid, mysterious depths of the Amazon rainforest, or the sun-kissed, palm-fringed Caribbean and Pacific coasts.
In December, her world transforms with the Novenas de Aguinaldos . These are nine days of prayer and singing leading up to Christmas. For a girl, this is magical. She dresses up, practices carols ( villancicos ), and perhaps performs a skit. It is a blend of religious solemnity and childhood fun, involving sparklers ( luces de bengala ) and too many sweets.
December is perhaps the most enchanting month for a Colombian child. The holiday season kicks off on December 7th with El Día de las Velitas (The Day of the Little Candles). As darkness falls, families line the sidewalks, porches, and streets with thousands of colorful candles and paper lanterns, making a wish for each flame lit. The night is a glowing wonderland, viewed through the wide, amazed eyes of a child. This is quickly followed by the Novena de Aguinaldos , nine consecutive nights of gathering around the nativity scene, shaking tambourines, playing maracas, and singing traditional carols ( villancicos ) while waiting for the arrival of El Niño Dios (Baby Jesus) on Christmas Eve. Resilience and the Modern Colombian Girl
I learned that my body was a weapon of joy. In a country where women’s bodies are often treated as spoils of war or objects of the male gaze, dancing was an act of reclamation. When I moved my hips to the beat of the tambora , I was not a little girl from a dangerous neighborhood. I was the ocean. I was the river. I was 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.
every tragedy was followed by a fiesta . Did the roof leak? Let's have an asado (barbecue) in the dry part of the yard. Did Tío lose his job? Make more empanadas ; they cure sadness.
If I close my eyes, I can still taste the geography:
Growing up as a little girl in Colombia means learning to find joy in the cracks of hardship. She is taught to be pilas (sharp) but also cariñosa (loving). She plays hopscotch on sidewalks where, ten years earlier, paramilitaries might have walked. She dreams of being a doctor or a reina (queen). She grows up bilingual: one language of words, and another language of survival, rhythm, and loyalty to her tierra . She is not a victim of her context. She is, as Colombians say, a la orden —ready for whatever comes.
However, growing up in Colombia also means developing an early, nuanced understanding of resilience. Depending on the decade and region of her childhood, a young girl may have grown up under the shadow of social political unrest, economic volatility, or the remnants of the country's turbulent past.
I learned that paradise is always leaking. It is always under threat. That is what makes it precious. The birds in the Amazon do not know they are dying. The wax palms in the Cocora Valley do not know they are being cut down. But the women—the mothers, the abuelas , the little girls—we know.
Your weekends are spent running through emerald-green hills, playing hide-and-seek among towering wax palms, and watching hummingbirds dart between exotic orchids.
Music played a significant role in my life. I started taking piano lessons when I was 6 years old, and I quickly fell in love with Colombian folk music. My favorite artists were Shakira, Carlos Vives, and Andrés Calamaro. I'd spend hours listening to their songs, trying to learn the lyrics and rhythms.
As a little girl growing up in Colombia, life is a sensory masterpiece painted in vibrant colors, scored by rhythmic beats, and anchored by the unbreakable bonds of family. To spend your childhood in this equatorial paradise is to experience a world where magic and reality blur seamlessly together. From the mist-shrouded peaks of the Andes to the sun-drenched shores of the Caribbean, growing up female in Colombia shapes your identity in profound, beautiful, and enduring ways. The Soundtrack and Scents of Home
The soundtrack to this childhood is distinct. It isn't silence. It is the blare of Vallenato or Cumbia from a speaker that seems to be always on. It is the sound of her mother or grandmother shouting from the kitchen, calling the family to eat. It is the roar of the river and the distant sound of a neighbor’s horse. She learns to love the outdoors not as a pristine playground, but as a wild, living part of her heritage.
Colombia is a land of striking geographical contrasts. Depending on where a little girl’s story unfolds, her playground might be the towering, snow-capped peaks of the Andes, the humid, mysterious depths of the Amazon rainforest, or the sun-kissed, palm-fringed Caribbean and Pacific coasts.
In December, her world transforms with the Novenas de Aguinaldos . These are nine days of prayer and singing leading up to Christmas. For a girl, this is magical. She dresses up, practices carols ( villancicos ), and perhaps performs a skit. It is a blend of religious solemnity and childhood fun, involving sparklers ( luces de bengala ) and too many sweets.
December is perhaps the most enchanting month for a Colombian child. The holiday season kicks off on December 7th with El Día de las Velitas (The Day of the Little Candles). As darkness falls, families line the sidewalks, porches, and streets with thousands of colorful candles and paper lanterns, making a wish for each flame lit. The night is a glowing wonderland, viewed through the wide, amazed eyes of a child. This is quickly followed by the Novena de Aguinaldos , nine consecutive nights of gathering around the nativity scene, shaking tambourines, playing maracas, and singing traditional carols ( villancicos ) while waiting for the arrival of El Niño Dios (Baby Jesus) on Christmas Eve. Resilience and the Modern Colombian Girl as a little girl growing up in colombia
I learned that my body was a weapon of joy. In a country where women’s bodies are often treated as spoils of war or objects of the male gaze, dancing was an act of reclamation. When I moved my hips to the beat of the tambora , I was not a little girl from a dangerous neighborhood. I was the ocean. I was the river. I was 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.
every tragedy was followed by a fiesta . Did the roof leak? Let's have an asado (barbecue) in the dry part of the yard. Did Tío lose his job? Make more empanadas ; they cure sadness. The soundtrack to this childhood is distinct
If I close my eyes, I can still taste the geography:
Growing up as a little girl in Colombia means learning to find joy in the cracks of hardship. She is taught to be pilas (sharp) but also cariñosa (loving). She plays hopscotch on sidewalks where, ten years earlier, paramilitaries might have walked. She dreams of being a doctor or a reina (queen). She grows up bilingual: one language of words, and another language of survival, rhythm, and loyalty to her tierra . She is not a victim of her context. She is, as Colombians say, a la orden —ready for whatever comes.
However, growing up in Colombia also means developing an early, nuanced understanding of resilience. Depending on the decade and region of her childhood, a young girl may have grown up under the shadow of social political unrest, economic volatility, or the remnants of the country's turbulent past. It is the sound of her mother or
I learned that paradise is always leaking. It is always under threat. That is what makes it precious. The birds in the Amazon do not know they are dying. The wax palms in the Cocora Valley do not know they are being cut down. But the women—the mothers, the abuelas , the little girls—we know.
Your weekends are spent running through emerald-green hills, playing hide-and-seek among towering wax palms, and watching hummingbirds dart between exotic orchids.
Music played a significant role in my life. I started taking piano lessons when I was 6 years old, and I quickly fell in love with Colombian folk music. My favorite artists were Shakira, Carlos Vives, and Andrés Calamaro. I'd spend hours listening to their songs, trying to learn the lyrics and rhythms.
As a little girl growing up in Colombia, life is a sensory masterpiece painted in vibrant colors, scored by rhythmic beats, and anchored by the unbreakable bonds of family. To spend your childhood in this equatorial paradise is to experience a world where magic and reality blur seamlessly together. From the mist-shrouded peaks of the Andes to the sun-drenched shores of the Caribbean, growing up female in Colombia shapes your identity in profound, beautiful, and enduring ways. The Soundtrack and Scents of Home
