This column originated from Sol del Valle and has been translated for English readers.
Sol del Valle turned 4 this week, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take a moment to reflect on what this paper and its people mean to me as a first‑gen kid from the Roaring Fork Valley.
I started writing for El Sol in December 2023. Just before that, I spent 2020-22 at Colorado Mesa University working in housing. When the pandemic hit, what was supposed to be a role in student housing and leadership quickly became crisis response and public health. At its worst, it was a seven‑day‑a‑week grind moving students in and out of quarantine, going through a few of my own, and trying to cover my original job duties at the same time. Everyone was stretched thin then but, long story short, that job burned me out in ways I’m still unpacking.
I was desperate to get out and start what I imagined would be my career in writing. Every night, I’d hunt for jobs on LinkedIn and Indeed, searching for anything that even mentioned writing. To prepare for my daydreams, I wrote every day, trying to get better, hoping to get the attention of newsrooms and magazines. I sent those pieces everywhere that had an email to contact. Rejection emails piled up from those nice enough to respond. Nonetheless, it got to a point where my relationship with writing became toxic. To me, if no one was liking my stuff, it must mean I was bad at it, leaving me with little self-esteem and a whole ton of anxiety that questioned the point of being alive on its worst nights.
After a few months of that dark headspace, Christmas break came and campus emptied out. I indulged myself with a jumbo margarita from the local Mexican spot, carried it to an aluminum table outside the library, drank, and started to craft my writing manifesto — calling me to write because I love it, not who loved it; to remember that my words weren’t worthless just because I wasn’t getting paid for them. Not long after, I self-published an opinion piece about Lauren Boebert, then our congressional rep in Garfield County, and a few opportunities opened up.
One of those was Sol del Valle. They asked if I’d like to contribute, pitching the publication as a space for local Spanish writers to lend their perspectives and help build a network of storytellers capturing life in the Valley, all in Spanish. I was terrified.
At that point, my spoken and written Spanish was garbage. But my editor, the talented writer of the “Artista Existencial” column, Vanessa Porras, assured me I could write in English, and she’d help translate it. So I drafted my column in English and then worked with Vanessa to translate it. Fast-forward nearly two years, and I am so much more capable and confident in translating between English and Spanish.
The next challenge was figuring out what to write and for whom. Early on, I thought I was better suited for more artistic pieces, but it wasn’t until El Sol invited us to a call with Luz Romano, director of communications at Mexicanos Primero, that I learned what a column really is and how to write one. After that call, I felt more confident finding my voice and perspective.
I still don’t know exactly who reads my column every month, but I settled into topics that felt right for me — immigrant issues, growing up first-gen, state politics, social justice and adulthood. It felt like I was doing a lot of critiquing, so I named my column “Críticas,” inspired by one of my favorite writers, Jessica Hopper, and her book “The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic.”
I didn’t tell my family I was writing for the paper until a few columns in. My mom, primarily a Spanish speaker and reader, had never read my work before. For the first time, I was able to share my craft in her native tongue. I’ve made her cry many times (this is a point of pride). She told me recently that when I left for college, she felt like she lost me, but through reading my writing, she said it’s like she’s meeting me for the first time. It’s through Sol del Valle’s editing, translation and trust that I’ve been able to close a gap between myself and culture, family, self-worth and confidence.
I think of myself as a representative for Latino youth in the Valley. The only reason you’re reading my words is that I had opportunities. Sure, I work hard, but so do a lot of people in the Roaring Fork Valley. We all have dreams, but without the proper support, those dreams die. Especially in the Valley, it can feel like our dreams are too big for us and our place. Why would a Rifle boy’s words ever matter? They matter because they always have. No one had put resources toward letting those voices shine.
I’m proud of El Sol because it’s an example of what happens when we put resources toward enabling the thoughts, perspectives and talents of people often overlooked by traditional media.
Spanish writing matters. We matter. We’re here. And in times when our safety, communication networks, jobs and freedoms are at risk, having an outlet like El Sol ensures our thoughts, culture and stories cannot be erased.
Someday, I won’t be writing for El Sol anymore, but I rest easy knowing that when that day comes, my spot won’t be taken by a careerist. It’ll be filled by someone in the community with something to say – in Spanish. Until then, I’m grateful to everyone who has ever picked up this paper, flipped through it, and read the words of any contributor. It’s a highlight every month to sit down and ask myself, “What do I want to put out next?”
Happy Birthday, Sol del Valle. You are a magical paper in a magical place, written for and by magical people.