Argentine-born, Angeleno-raised gone Rocky-Mountain-writer.

Author Vilma Reynoso as a child in Argentina sticking her tongue out with her dog, Romi.
Photo Credit: author, Vilma Reynoso, with Romi in Argentina.

Hello! I’m Vilma, Argentine-born, Angeleno-raised gone Rocky-Mountain-writer who loves nature, coffee, and good books.

I adore German shepherds, and I remember sticking out my tongue only a few times in my life (including with Romi above)! I did, however, imitate others because I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be for decades.

Early Life

On a crowded runway at the Los Angeles Airport, my parents and I landed and soon took up residence in the city of lights as the working poor in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in a small house near the beach. We immigrated to the United States from Rosario…


And swallowed up whole.

Photo Credit: James Ranieri, Pexels

“The guitar is a small orchestra. It is polyphonic. Every string is a different color, a different voice.” — Andres Sogovia, Spanish classical guitarist

In the corner leaning against the wall, you would have found my mahogany Spanish guitar and its case on the floor, dusty and worn, and you would have thought nothing of it. You would not have been surprised, either, when I sold it for only forty bucks.

I was raised near the beach in sunny California by immigrant parents from Argentina. Spanish anything was part of my daily existence. Argentine beef empanadas, flan, asados on Sundays…


It’s time for someone who survived a high-risk pregnancy to educate those who don’t get it

Photo Credit: Author, Vilma Reynoso

“Please step back.” The anesthesiologist stretched his arm pushing back my ex-husband from taking another picture of my open womb. At 38 weeks, I went into premature labor, was rushed to the hospital, and underwent an emergency cesarean.

Awake and frozen from my shoulders down, I watched the eyes of the two doctors who worked to remove my daughter from my womb. I could see and smell blood on their hospital gowns. I decided to focus on their faces instead of their hands tugging and pulling diligently over my mid-section. The anesthesiologist calmed me by putting his hand on my…


The generational curse needs to be broken. Be direct. Be clear. Be done with it.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

My mother had a hard time with the word “no.” She couldn’t say it. And, she taught me to do the same: “Be a yes girl and always smile.”

No matter how or what she felt, “no” was dirty, ugly, unbecoming, and definitely not what a submissive wife or good, little lady ever said.

She once bought the entire Encyclopedia Britannica (yes, I am dating myself) from some guy in a brown suit because she could not utter the one-syllable word “no” direct to his face.

Oops.

I can’t say I blame her — her mother taught her to indirectly…


OPEN LETTERS

Can we all just be kind now… at least try?

Photo by Rachel Claire from Pexels

Dear Rude Dude on Nextdoor,

Do you like the lamps you grabbed from my front porch without as much as a “thanks?” Do they match your bedroom or your office? Or, did you stick them in the pile of trash and beer in your basement?

(I always wonder if I give something away if someone will try to sell whatever it is. Is that your plan?)

Granted, I know that it’s hard to talk to people these days. We all seem to be hiding from each other more than usual — blame it on Covid or just the dubious state…


OPEN LETTERS

Accepting a toxic childhood and learning to let it go.

Photo by Briona Baker on Unsplash

Dear Mom,

I’ve been dreading writing this letter to you.

Sometimes just thinking about you makes me anxious, sad, or both, or hell, sometimes I don’t know what I feel. Suffice to say, I wish you had taken better care of yourself so you would not have yelled at me every day. I’m now in my 50s (yeah, I outlived you and I’m a lot healthier than you ever were), and sometimes, I still struggle with anxiety.

There was a time in my life when I thought I was over the damage you inflicted. All of it. I had good…


“I wanted to make you see, wanted so badly to show you how you were suffering.”

Photo by Jacob Townsend on Unsplash

“You might not have left the world so soon if you had heeded the internal warnings. You could have lived to see me grow up, Mom. But you allowed the fog to roll in and ensnare you like cancer. I hated you for that.”

On that day after high school track practice, I rode my bike home, like usual. My shoulders tightened and my mouth dried up as I reached my house at top of the hill and jumped off my bike. I noticed lots of cars parked on the street.

After leaning my bike against the garage door, I…


The mistreatment of women is the abuse of human rights on an unthinkable scale.

Photo by Elizaveta Dushechkina from Pexels

“For the female is, as it were, a mutilated male, Aristotle concludes.” — Jack Holland in A Brief History of Misogyny: The World’s Oldest Prejudice

Did you know Aristotle believed women were mutilated males in the womb and thus inferior to men? Pretty crazy, huh? He also believed women were put on Earth to be obedient, that obedience was their natural state and their purpose in life. He ascertained that woman’s inferiority to her ruler (her husband) is permanent and unchanging. (After reading this book, I have lost respect for Aristotle).

What is misogyny? According to Dictionary.com, misogyny is “hatred…


The bible was right about one thing.

Photo by José Luis Photographer from Pexels

“Take time to heal. Take time for yourself.”

These were the words written on the coffee mug outside my apartment door I had just received from a stranger, years ago.

It was one of the worst times of my life. One month prior, I had left an abusive marriage and was on my own with my six-year-old — just having filed for divorce. My furniture from donations had just arrived. It was a cold, Saturday evening in December, close to Christmas.

I opened the gift bag, carefully finding the cardboard wrapping around the coffee mug first. In the box were…


It’s not that hard, even for city people.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

There is nothing better than eating food that sprouted in your backyard — or from the balcony in your apartment complex.

I was not always a gardener. A product of a beach town in the county of Los Angeles in the 60s, 70s, and 80s, I was a city girl living far from any farm. I didn’t even know how most foods were grown, as embarrassing as that is to admit.

My family had a gorgeous garden. Not a single seed was sown to grow any type of food, but we had the most beautiful roses you have ever seen…

Vilma G. Reynoso

Musings about the human experience inspired by courage, curiosity, truth, and authenticity. Solopreneur Writer. No boxes. vilmareynoso.com/e-newsletter

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