“Slow down. Men don’t like women who are smarter than they are. And if you want to one day find a husband, you’d better slow down.”

As I walked the halls of my alma mater, DePaul University, those words echoed in my mind. My mother had told me that over thirty years ago. Before judging her, let me explain.

The Roots of Her Words

My mother’s words echoed the beliefs passed down through generations—beliefs born from a lineage of women who learned that safety and love were earned by obedience, not self-assurance.

After my grandparents relocated from Puerto Rico to Chicago, my mother became the fourth child out of seven siblings. Although she was intelligent and outspoken, she faced many challenges in school. She left school after her sophomore year, with reading skills equivalent to those of a third grader.

Even with her learning challenges, my mom remained resilient, resourceful, and quick-witted. She worked hard and expressed herself with confidence, even when she secretly carried insecurities about her reading. No one knew—but she did.

So when I became an ambitious seventeen-year-old preparing for college, our worlds collided.

The Kitchen Conversation

Of all the places where my mom and I could have had this conversation, we ended up in the kitchen—a space that society has designated, and continues to enforce, as the ultimate domain for women. My mom was never a housewife—she had worked for as long as I can remember. Still, no one else in our extended family had ever gone to college, let alone moved away to attend one.

She looked at me and said, “Slow down. Men don’t like women who are smarter than they are. And if you want to find a husband someday, you’d better slow down.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My mom had always seemed so strong and bold, the kind of woman who filled every room she entered. Yet now, here she was, trying to make me feel small—to shrink me just like the rest of the world so often did. I was furious, a surge of anger rising within me as the woman I admired suddenly became just another voice trying to diminish me.

I shouted, “I don’t want to be a teenage wife and mom, like you were. I’m going to college—why can’t you just be happy for me?”

In that instant, two generations collided—separated by seventeen years but divided even more by their different outlooks on life.

Reflecting now, I see that it wasn’t just my mother and me in that kitchen. My grandmother and great-grandmother were there as well—in spirit, woven into our conversations. I spoke not only for myself, but for my daughters, their daughters, and the generations yet to come.

I was the shift.

Understanding the Why

As a therapist, I now understand what I couldn’t see back then: my mother’s words weren’t meant to shrink me—they were meant to protect me.

She grew up in a world where a woman’s power could cost her love, belonging, or stability. The label of “old maid” spoke louder than the appeal of becoming an independent woman. To her, my ambition might have looked like danger. Her warning was an act of love, even if it came wrapped in fear and possible insecurity.

That moment in our kitchen represents what I often see in therapy—a clash between past survival patterns and the healing work of the present.

So many of us carry inherited messages such as:

• “Don’t take up so much space, know your place.”
• “Don’t be angry.”
• “Don’t be too emotional.”
• “Don’t speak too loudly.”
• “Don’t outshine others.”
• “Don’t need too much.”

These are more than just words—they’re protective mechanisms, passed down through generations, doing their best to keep us safe in a world that hasn’t always valued our voices.

Healing the Story

Ironically, I also struggled with reading as a child. Diagnosed with a learning disability, I didn’t learn to read or write until fifth grade. That journey ultimately became the foundation of my career. After that, I went on to attend college and graduated from DePaul University, where I helped found the school’s first Latina sorority. I earned my bachelor’s degree in education and later received three master’s degrees: one in Early Childhood, one as a Reading Specialist, and one in Clinical Counseling. When my oldest daughter graduated from Northwestern University, I knew the shift had continued. The path I walked had paved the way for her.

From Survival to Healing

In therapy, we talk about intergenerational healing—how the pain we don’t address or transform gets transmitted to others. My mother’s story taught me that healing isn’t about blaming those who came before us, but about understanding them with compassion.

She did the best she could with what she knew. And I have the privilege of doing better — because of her sacrifices.

Sometimes, healing means slowing down. Other times, it means refusing to submit, shrink, or make yourself smaller just to help others feel safe.

Therapeutic Reflection

Every family passes down both pain and wisdom. Therapy gives us space to examine the messages we inherited—and decide which ones we want to keep.

Ask yourself:

• What beliefs about love, success, or worth did you inherit?
• Which of those served you once, but no longer fit who you’re becoming?
• What would healing look like for you to see your parents’ mistakes with empathy, as you pursue your story?

If you’d like someone to walk beside you as you explore your past, our therapists would be honored to hold space for you. Healing doesn’t make us forget our past—it transforms it. Often, the boldest way to honor those who came before us is to choose a new path. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you’re ready to begin this journey of becoming a cycle breaker and legacy maker.