I hate being misunderstood. And in a world where one single post can haunt you for life, I censor myself constantly. I second-guess myself even when I know how I feel and what I believe is right. I overthink my wording, examine everything from all angles, and always land in the murky gray of nuance. Not because I’m too scared to choose a side, but because I can’t make myself forget the complexity of being human — and my empathy refuses to stop trying to understand.
Online, we strive for a world that is black and white because it spares us from sitting with hard questions and uncomfortable answers. But that kind of thinking limits progress. Everything becomes an online morality test, and I get lost in the virtue signaling and moral policing. I find myself wondering whether the advocacy I see is born from genuine care — or from the serotonin rush of calling out someone else’s behavior. Because if your advocacy starts and ends with a comment or a post, how much do you truly care about the thing you claim to fight for?
I am vocal online, but most of my advocacy happens off-screen. When I received negative comments accusing me of not supporting the St. Martins boycott or not speaking up enough for Palestine, those people had no idea I was donating thousands of dollars to relief aid. They didn’t know I was spending hours educating myself on something I had previously known very little about or that I was donating books to fundraisers to raise even more money.
Yes, being vocal online is important — it raises awareness. But when advocacy is weaponized against others, I start to question the ethics behind it.
I am not morally pure, no matter how hard I try to be. But what most people don’t see — or don’t want to see — is how much I care. I care about doing what is right. I care about making people happy. I care about standing up for others. I question myself constantly because I want to get it right. And still, I will stumble. I am messy. Maybe I don’t speak up as often as I should. Maybe I don’t always know how. But if you knew me — if you even took the time to know me — you would see how deeply I care.
The internet scares me. I’ve seen how your character can be dragged, twisted, and flattened into something easy for others to digest. I’ve read some of the nastiest things said about me — people messaging brands to get me fired, even trying to take away my publishing imprint. I have cried to my therapist and my partner more times than I can count. At one point, it got so bad I almost quit being a content creator altogether. Because despite knowing who I am and what I believe, I gaslit myself into thinking their version of me must be reality.
But all of this forced me to face my greatest fear: being misunderstood.
I became a book creator because queer books saved me when I was coming out, and I wanted to share that gift. My goal was to be an online resource for other queer people searching for themselves. Over time, that dream grew. I started talking about books in general, but stayed vocal about my queerness — something I had never dared to do online before. For so long, I believed I had to hide that part of myself to be liked. TikTok showed me that being fully myself was where I would find the most success.
So I stopped hiding. I wanted to be more than just a resource — I wanted to be an example that you don’t have to shrink yourself to fit in. That queer people deserve to have a voice in a world that tries to silence them. And as someone who is both mixed-race and gay, I have always felt like I didn’t fully belong anywhere. I was never “Mexican enough.” I was never “straight enough.” I had to work harder than my straight counterparts to achieve what I have — and that’s why every setback, every attempt to tear me down, hurts so deeply.
It’s not that I believe marginalized creators are beyond critique — but that critique weighs heavier than many realize. When people tried to make me lose my imprint, they didn’t just attack me — they threatened a publishing house built to amplify marginalized voices and stories.
I cannot avoid being misunderstood. People will always believe what they want to believe. And as painful as that is, I have to learn to be okay with it.
Actually — I am okay with it.
I am still figuring out who I am, but I can tell you everything I have done to get here. I am here because I refused to hide my queerness. I am here because I believe in diversity in our stories, and that is what I will continue to publish. I am here because I care. I am here because I believe in myself and the dreams I have for literature.
And I am here because of you.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. Truly. Your willingness to sit with these thoughts means more than I can say, and I’m so grateful you’re part of this community we are building together. If you’d like to help us go even further, the best way is by becoming a paid member of Violetear Books. I ask because I believe in us — in the kinds of diverse stories we are bringing into the world. Thanks to you, we have Inferno’s Heir, Tempest’s Queen, Black Salt Queen, and one more on the way. I cannot thank you enough for helping make that possible.
I want us to build Violetear Books so big that publishers can’t ignore us or our stories. I want to change publishing — and every single membership brings us one step closer to that goal.
