From Stage Lights to Stove Heat

I grew up in a small town called Miracielo, in the south of the Dominican Republic. A dry coastal region crossed by rivers, where everything feels touched by ancestry. Our road trips to buy ingredients felt like mini adventures. I remember the fishermen calling out the catch of the day, the farmers selling plantains from the back of their trucks, the women who woke up before the sun to make sweets that tasted like tradition. Food there is a story of roots, community, and memory.

 

But the heart of it all was my grandmother, Carmen. She taught me what love tastes like. Her cooking is simple, balanced, and complete with care. The way she moves in the kitchen is pure intuition and heart. Everything I know about flavor, respect, and patience started in her hands.

 

Before cooking, my whole life was dance. I was a professional dancer from the time I was seventeen. Ballet, contemporary, theater stages, music videos, and award shows. Dance gave me rhythm, discipline, performance, and the courage to take up space. Those things still live in every dish I make.

 

But when I wanted to study culinary arts, there were no proper programs on the Island. So I studied Hotel Management first to access the culinary courses within it. At the time, it felt like a detour, but today I see how valuable it was. It gave me business structure, planning, and leadership. The Basque Culinary Center came later, after many sacrifices. That is where I refined my technique and learned to see ingredients with new eyes.

 

My first stage happened because of a ceviche. I tasted it and it completely stopped me. It was made by a Dominican chef who had lived in Peru and worked for many years with a Japanese chef. The respect and precision behind that dish changed everything for me. I went back to that restaurant again and again until they finally let me stage with them. I saw the chaos of service, the pressure, the sacrifices, the exhaustion, the adrenaline, and I thought, “This is insane, but I love it.”

 

Then came Europe. A small-town island girl, with almost no experience, inside a three-Michelin-star kitchen. I felt like I was constantly climbing a mountain with no rest. I questioned myself endlessly. I felt alone more times than I can count. I cried a lot. But I stayed even when my hands were shaking, even when my voice was small, even when I doubted everything. I stayed because my dream was bigger than my fear.

 

A day that marked me forever in the kitchen was in the middle of a hard shift, when the chef handed me a chocolate-and-rosemary dessert. The flavor stopped me completely. It was strange, beautiful, and emotional. That bite changed my relationship with herbs forever. It reminded me that food is not just about taste. It is memory. It is feeling. It is storytelling.

 

Today, my philosophy in the kitchen is that food is love, so I cook with plenty of it. I come from kitchens where kindness was rare, where mental health was not a conversation, where you were expected to break yourself in order to be great. So I chose a different path. I lead with respect, with patience, with humanity. I want my dishes to be beautiful, but I want my team to feel safe, supported, and seen. I do not rush their growth. I protect their joy. I want excellence without cruelty.

 

Being a brown, immigrant woman in European fine dining often left me standing alone. I felt I had to prove myself twice to be seen once. But I also found people who held me up when I needed it. Some of those people are now my family.

 

I love that through food and restaurant culture, I can reach people I might never have met otherwise. I love giving love, attention, and care to people I don’t even know, and being part of their special moments is such a beautiful feeling. But there’s still so much to work on in this industry. Like many others, it’s a world where people burn out, where health often takes a back seat to success. I understand that greatness requires sacrifice, but I believe we can reach a point where we don’t have to destroy ourselves to create something amazing.

 

I wish the industry were more gentle and accepting of diversity. I want to see more women leading kitchens, more diverse chefs creating and being celebrated. I was often the first brown woman in the spaces I worked in, and I don’t want to be the last. I want to see diversity not just in kitchens, but in the food we serve and the stories we tell through our menus.

 

I want to see more kindness. The idea that you have to be mean and harsh to be a good chef doesn’t inspire me. As a leader, I try to be strong, disciplined, and hold high standards, but also kind, nurturing, and healing for my team. I want to build teams that grow, not burn out.

 

There was a time when I ended up in the ER every two weeks because I was exhausted and not taking care of my body or mind. We give everything to this craft. I wish the craft gave a little more back. 

 

Photo credits to @luierre