Incurable Humanist

“Oh, an incurable humanist you are” — I’ve always loved that lyric from Regina Spektor’s Loveology. It’s lingered for years, almost like she accidentally described me better than I ever could.

If you’re here looking for algorithms or spreadsheets… you might be in the wrong place. This is a soft, artsy, slightly chaotic corner of the internet — a space for stories, about grief, migration and art.

I just turned 30 and realized I’ve spent most of my life writing things I never dared to share. Perhaps I thought I had to wait until I was established, successful, and had it all figured out. (Spoiler: I don’t.)

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As a teenager, I briefly pursued a career as a singer-songwriter. I released three singles, but wrote over hundreds songs I never shared. (Serendipitously, I ended up marrying a music producer — but that’s a story for another day.) That’s kind of the story of my life: creating quietly while outwardly trying to meet expectations I never fully believed in.

I was a law student during a dictatorship, immigrant, art graduate, gallerina, aspiring lawyer again, and now, someone choosing a different path. Someone who once dreamed of living in New York, and made that dream come true. Someone who’s circling back to a world I once thought I had to leave behind: writing, creating.

Even as I moved between disciplines, cities, and identities, there was always a creative thread I kept tucked away. That instinct to protect what felt most true stayed with me into adulthood. So maybe this begins with the realization that I’ve spent years caught between what I felt called to do and what I thought I had to do to be taken seriously.

That negotiation became even more complicated by migration. Because no one prepares you for what it feels like to start over emotionally, professionally, and existentially. Or maybe they try, but it’s never your version of the story. So, this is mine.

People’s opinions got in my head. I started believing that not pursuing law meant I wasn’t serious. So, I tried again. I applied to LLM programs, and I struggled to get transcripts from Venezuela (if you know, you know). I got in. Even to Columbia. And then, after all that effort, I said no. Because what if the bravest thing isn’t pushing forward blindly, but choosing a different direction. One that’s less linear, but more aligned?

This Substack is a space for reflection. For processing. For writing the things I used to keep hidden in folders on my computer. It’s about navigating the in-between. Between being pragmatic and being idealistic. Between grief, migration, and art.

I still have impostor syndrome. I’m still figuring things out. But I’m writing anyway.

So read along if you want. Or don’t.

Either way, I’m glad you’re here.

— Denise

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