Pasión de Ánimo

(Emotional Burnout on Steroids)

My pasion-de-animo-go-to practice 🧘‍♀️

The week started with "pasión de ánimo" (AKA emotional burnout).

Well, actually, 2025 kicked off with all the feels—my least illogical translation for this wonderful Cuban expression that my work bestie O.G. (aka La Compi, as we call each other) gifted me a couple of decades ago.

Picture this: a sunny afternoon in the city that's "progressed" in the 305 (Hialeah, if you will). Suddenly, my desk buddy, separated only by a half-wall, desperately wanting to be a whole wall but never lucky enough (nor budgeted ) to make it, threw this at me:

—"Compi, I woke up today with such a passssión de áaaanimo that not even Taylor Swiffff can shake it off, you know?"
—"What are you talking about, Compi?" I replied, genuinely bewildered.
—"Gurl, it's like when you're so overwhelmed and bitter that you're not up for anything good or bad. You know what I mean?"

So it's like sea salt corrosion, el salitre, I thought. Something unfixable!

Of course, when this pure and compassionate soul that God gave me—and that men (well, several) have tried to take away—hears the slightest conpléin with such feeling, I can't turn off my recorder nor hide my chaise lounger. And if you add that the one telling me what's happening in her heart is the other wing of this Caribbean bird, I go full psycho-somatizing mode.

I step fully into character—the one with an honorary doctorate in psychology simply for having two brain cells rub together.

—"Compi, could it be that there's some generational trauma stuck in that brain God gave you and that so many Shitty Jobs have tried to take away? We need to do some family constellation therapy on this. This doesn't belong to you."

"Oh, honey... The thing is that pasión de ánimo can't be fixed. It's that feeling of not wanting anything. Of not being sure if you have the strength to keep going or if it's better to stop in the middle of the Palmetto, climb out through the sunroof, and scream ˜˜NOOOOOOOOO! until you become hoarse."

It turns out my dear Compi's soul was hurting, and pasión de ánimo was her most poetic way of letting me know. Since that day, no explanations have been needed. Pasión de ánimo has become our safe word. Just as God intended when you have long-distance BFFs.

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1-800-CRISTY

Today, when I saw La Compi's name on my phone, I said to myself, "Self, answer because this smells like pasión de ánimo ."

And sure enough, it was.

They did a reorg at work, and it was my friend's turn. Of course, not before she'd left her skin in another one of these shitty jobs, which—on top of being toxic and stealing what little peace we have left between one pasión de ánimo and the next—we have to thank for our daily bread.

I prepared to answer her call without further ado and was already encabroná.

—"I want names!"
—"Esta Niña, you heard already?"
—"No. I don't have a clue, but I can smell they've done something to you, my friend. And since I'm proactive with emotions, I'm pre-exasperated for moral support purposes. What the hell did they do to you?"
"Well, it's over, so now we gotta figure it out, you know? Time to job hunt."

And that's when I understood the lesson of the day, maybe of all 2025: Pasión de ánimo is nothing but a safe word in moments of vulnerability between two strong women who refuse to be cured of Extreme Positivism or to stay quiet in the face of injustice.

Layoffs are garbage —no reasonable doubt about it. But we're more likely to experience them at least once in this work-life than to see egg prices go decent again. Literally.

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The Long Story Short...

Our call lasted about an hour and a half. Right before goodbyes, we found the beauty within the tragedy (we come trained from birth like good Caribbean women. Thanks, constellation-therapy'd and non-constellation-therapy'd ancestors!).

We started counting how many pasiones de ánimo we've lived through together in the last 20 years of friendship. We agreed it must be around 28, half of which we owe to the thousand-and-one shared shitty jobs (shitty bosses included). The other half, we attribute to life's blows, such as losing loved ones, traffic jams on the Palmetto and Grand Central Parkway, the countless Mari Chochis (aka women of the 10%) life has stuck us with, and Thy Neighbor.

When we add it all up, today's pasión de ánimo starts dissipating as we remember how these life blows are the reason we exist and are friends. La Compi and I met in one of those shitty offices. And if it weren't for that half-wall with a full-wall complex, there would be no newsletter today.

My friend will find her new path, career-wise (because finding her way isn't her thing, even with GPS). That doesn't worry me for a second. Plus, she's got curves for days (inside joke) and talent in spades ...

The week started with pasión de ánimo, yes. And if that's the excuse for my most precious friends to call me and spend 1.5 hours trying to fix the world, democracy incluuuuuded, then give me that honorary doctorate in all the pasiones and all the ánimos and emotional burnouts that have been and will be.

Onwards?

P.S. This story is dedicated to everyone experiencing job loss right now, especially those in media. And to those of us Done With The Hustle, as one of my favorite humans, Ana Flores, calls it. It's not easy out there, as my Chayanne would say. But know that you're not alone; I'm here for you!

+ as Nydia Caro says, "You can't see the stars without a very dark night" (thanks, Buscabulla 👇). Tomorrow will be más bonito... (thanks, Karol G).

Mucho Love,