The Story Won’t Tell Itself

Dear reader,

Today I write to you from one of my favorite places: Café Comunal. It's been a few days since I left New York. I began this piece there, in the middle of a journey filled with purpose. By the time this is published, it will already be part of history. And with that comes an inevitable question: What is history? And why does it matter?

The word history comes from the Ancient Greek historía, meaning “inquiry” or “knowledge acquired through investigation.” It was used by Herodotus—known as the father of history—to describe his quest to understand the events of his time (Historíai). The word also derives from hístōr, meaning “witness” or “sage,” and is linked to the Proto-Indo-European root wid- (“to see, to know”), the same root found in the word wisdom.

Over time, the term passed into Latin (historia) and then into Spanish and English, retaining its dual meaning:

• A record of real events

• A narrative with symbolic or literary value

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The steps we take each day shape our present and carve paths toward the future. And yes, we are all storytellers. Every decision writes a line; every story holds symbolic power. If we are brave enough to share what we’ve lived, that story can elevate not only the one who tells it, but an entire community.

For centuries, stories have been shared around fires, in temples, books, forums, or theaters. The Romans told tales of heroic deeds and myths. Stories pass down wisdom, values, and worldviews. Many still live on, shaping the way we feel, understand, and dream. Metaphors survive centuries. Stories teach, inspire, transform.

I started writing this story in Brooklyn three weeks ago, before returning to the sunrises at Silver Strand, the wind of Coronado, and the waters of Glorieta Bay. Sitting once again at the wooden tables of this café—where, by the way, they serve the best coffee in town—feels like being embraced by home.

I remember someone once told me why this place is called “Comunal.” Its purpose is both clear and beautiful: to create something from within that serves the community. And they succeed on that purpose. Because community is also built on small details: a shared table, an unexpected conversation, a well-made cup of coffee. Here, stories flow like the aroma of espresso. Every place, every moment lived, becomes part of our story. If you ever visit, don’t hesitate to order an americano or a cold brew. There’s something for every taste, and always someone behind the counter ready to greet you with a warm smile.

You may have thought I was simply on vacation in Brooklyn. But no. I was there to attend The Future Isn’t Going to Write Itself, a powerful panel on the art of storytelling—moderated by Jamia, who invited me to take part.

Jamia Wilson is more than a leader in the publishing world. In 2017, she became the first woman of color and the youngest person to lead Feminist Press, an independent publishing house founded in 1970 at the City University of New York. This press was born to recover and uplift works written by women who had been excluded from the literary canon. Under her leadership, the editorial vision expanded—embracing intersectional voices and bringing to light stories from many margins. Her story doesn’t just inspire; it opens pathways.

At the beginning of the panel, Jamia told me: "I feel so moved by your story. When you say, ‘I’m a writer, I’m coming from Mexico, and I’m here because I want to learn from the best storytellers,’ I want to be a better storyteller."I shared my story with her simply, from the heart.

That immediate connection is what led her to invite me to such a meaningful space. To learn, to share, to inspire, to transform—this is a mission we both carry. That’s why story matters: because it isn’t just written, it’s embodied. And when it’s told with truth, it can move the world.

My trip to New York was an act of purpose. I was there to learn how to tell the stories of girls and women in communities that face structural challenges and deserve to be heard. That panel was symbolic: the story isn't going to write itself.

Did you know that in Mexico, although women make up the majority in artistic education, their visibility in exhibition spaces and fair compensation is still extremely limited? According to the Ministry of Economy, just over 5% of music authors are women. And in the third quarter of 2024, only 11% of performing artists were women. The gap is clear.

On the other hand, even though women form the base of the readership market, their visibility as authors has required alternative paths:

• Specialized book fairs

• Support networks

• Literary marathons

• Recovery of the female literary canon

• Projects like Vindictas or FENALEM

  
  

These platforms have redefined the space for female voices in literature, but the challenge remains: achieving institutional presence and collective narrative resonance.

Many people call me brave for going to write in an unfamiliar place. But more than bravery, what drives me is the determination to tell the story. Stories are living memory. With our words, our experience, and our resilience, we can face the social challenges we share—together.

In addition to meeting Jamia, I had the privilege of speaking with Anne K. Ream, author of Lived Through This and an activist who has spent over 20 years creating spaces where women survivors of gender-based violence can be heard. When I shared my projects with her, she responded with a phrase that still echoes in my mind: “Just because something happens often doesn’t make it any less horrible.”

As a society, this remains one of our greatest unfinished tasks: to stop normalizing the unacceptable. Access to education, dignified nutrition, libraries, art, and safe spaces to speak about what hurts us is already a basic right. The challenge lies in multiplying this reality, so that it doesn't reach just a few, but also those communities where it is most urgently needed.

Anne’s talk made me reflect: How do we rise after pain? The answer that comes to me is part of this path—daring to know and tell the story. At Elevate, we believe that self-knowledge honors the past and gives us direction for what comes next. Understanding what hurts—both individually and collectively—is a seed for awareness and action. Once again, that’s why story matters. Life doesn’t stop. It deserves to be lived with dignity, even when it hurts, even when it burns. And how are we going to do that if not through community?

Sharing that space with people who make violence visible through testimony reminded me that behind every statistic, there is a story. As Jamia said: “If my story moves you, act.” As Anne said: “Our bodies are storytellers.” I thought about my own scars—how physical healing can also be symbolic. Jimmy, another speaker at the panel, said: “The best storyteller is the one who has lived it.” And he added with conviction: “Now is not the time to be afraid.” Dear reader, it truly isn’t. It is always the right time to tell the story.

I traveled to New York to stand as a witness—to women, to communities, to what is still possible. Our story does not begin or end where others say it should. The soul of a community—like that of a young girl—is rebuilt with each new attempt.

Last year, we launched the project Un Salto de Fe (A Leap of Faith) inspired by the simple yet powerful belief: “Books change lives.” We collected 120 books that were donated to children. This year, we’re going further—toward the recovery of neglected spaces. This project was born as a way to bring light to communities where education and beauty are still seen as privileges. In those places, a book is not just paper: it is a seed, a bridge, a form of dignity. Each book delivered is a new story that begins to be written—with faith.

During the panel, Jamia said:“We are fighting for justice, but also for joy.” And if that’s not central, what is?

This phrase, spoken by Jamia during the panel, reflects a profound vision of activism and storytelling: it's not just about denouncing injustice or resisting pain, but also about reclaiming the right to joy, to collective celebration, to beauty as part of social transformation. It’s a way of affirming that fighting for a more just world doesn’t mean giving up hope or the enjoyment of life. On the contrary, it means imagining and building spaces where joy, creativity, and well-being can thrive.

Telling our stories differently is a form of resistance. It’s about looking at barren ground and, instead of giving up, planting something: A tree. A book. A story.

Because giving voice to a community is not always about making noise. Sometimes, it’s about giving echo back to its silence.

To keep tradition alive, I want to leave you with the song “Green Mountain State” by Trevor Hall. It speaks of returning to silence, of the inner path that has always been there. That silence also lives in streets without trees, where dreams have no map—but they do have certainty. And that echo, when it turns into song, becomes history.

"When you're ready to listen, click HERE."

If this article inspired you, share it.

Maybe someone else is also looking for a story that reminds them there is still a way forward. That there is a center. And that although the story won’t write itself, there are those of us here to write it.

Your writer,

María Conde

References:

• Chantraine, P. Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque

• Harper, D. Online Etymology Dictionary (etymonline.com)

• Heródoto, Historias (siglo V a.C.)

• Secretaría de Economía / Coordinación para la Igualdad de Género UNAM – "Poco más del 5 % de los autores de música son mujeres"

• Data México, 2024 – Artistas Interpretativos y condiciones laborales