Hortensia de los Santos

Hortensia's Blog

I Choose the Hard Way

July 13, 2025

I never dressed in fashion’s season. I chose my path quietly, Not out of stubbornness — but out of truth. Some are born to echo and imitate. But I was born to follow my instincts, I have always been a rebel in this way. Because I am not part of the pack.

I am the Lone She Wolf seeking my path under the Moon

Wedgewood Blue and Other Rebellions

An essay for those who still paint with their own hands

There is a quiet revolution in choosing your own color. Not a war cry. Not a slogan. Just a steady refusal to paint the walls white. Wedgewood Blue—soft, melancholic, complex—was the color of my choosing. It held something of dusk in it. Something of porcelain, of memory. But in a world of clean lines and neutral palettes, it became a point of contention.

“Why not white?” they asked.

Why not white?

Because I am not an empty hallway. Because I do not aspire to look like a brochure. Because this house holds breath, not blueprint. And breath remembers color.

There is an odd confidence in those who have never written a book, never battled a paragraph, never wandered lost inside a sentence for hours—yet tell you how to write.

“Use a microphone,” “Dictate!” “There are programs for that!” Yes, there are. There are also machines that can make soup without salt, music without pain, and letters without meaning. But I am not trying to mass-produce. I am trying to remember. To remember how words feel when you summon them slowly, not when they are auto-filled. They ask why I code by hand. Why not use WordPress? Why not drag and drop, click and publish, be efficient, be quick? Because I do not want someone else's bones under my website’s skin. Because I like to know where the veins run. Because there is something sacred in the slowness, in the vulnerability of crafting from nothing—like sowing seeds in a field that only I can see. There are many kinds of rebellions. Some march in the streets. Others wear Wedgewood Blue in defiance. Some code in silence while others scroll. Mine are quiet rebellions: against automation, against homogeneity, against the assumption that I should do what is easier, what is trendier, what is expected. I do what is true. I write what hurts until it heals. I code what won’t exist unless I build it. So let the white walls rise all around me. I will keep a single one blue, stubbornly blue— —like a flag. —like a memory. —like a rebellion you can touch.