You’re here because you care about stories.

Same here.

I’ve always been drawn to stories, not just the ones we withhold. The ones that hang in the air, just out of reach. The silence that falls when a truth lands too close. The repetition that turns family memory into folklore.

My love of storytelling started early, but it wasn’t born from abundance—it was born from absence.

Before I ever called myself a researcher or a storyteller, I was just a curious kid with a lot of questions and a grandfather who didn’t talk much about his past. His childhood. The war. The work he did. The hard choices that shaped his life in the borderlands. His silence told its own story, and it made me pay closer attention to what was said, and especially to what wasn’t.

Somewhere along the way, I realized it wasn’t polished narratives that moved me, but the histories behind them. The ones we inherit. The ones we silence. The ones that were never recorded but still shape the way we live.

As a Latina storyteller and historical researcher, I work across film, podcasts, live events, and community-centered media. My work lives at the intersection of personal memory and public history, with a focus on amplifying underrepresented voices, especially women of color, working-class communities, and those navigating complex cultural identities.

That’s where my work began.
Not in an archive, but in listening.
In asking better questions.
In knowing that sometimes the most powerful stories live in the margins—and that recovering them is more than the past. It’s about possibility.

Storytelling and history are inseparable. When approached with care, they help us understand where we come from—and imagine more just futures.