And somehow, she genuinely believes she’s the smartest bitch in the room.

Bitch, no.

Before anyone gets offended, I’m not talking about women in general. I’m talking about a particular breed of woman whose behavior seems to transcend age, ethnicity, culture, and profession. Different backgrounds, different personalities, same exhausting BS.

I call this the wannabe Gran Puta

(Spanish; roughly, “the great bitch,” other translations are more vulgar).

And no, I’m not insinuating that I am La Gran Puta. That shit is earned.

The Difference Between a Powerful Woman and an Insufferable One

I have tremendous respect for strong, intelligent, confident women. In fact, some of the women I admire most are formidable personalities who don’t take crap from anyone.

But there’s a standard.

Real power is demonstrated through intelligence, discipline, composure, integrity, and the ability to command respect without constantly demanding it. It’s the kind of confidence that comes from knowing who you are, understanding what you’re capable of, and having absolutely nothing to prove.

There’s structure to it. Grace. Poise. Self-awareness.

And then there’s the woman who possesses almost none of these qualities but behaves as though she’s mastered every single one of them.

She’s domineering, intrusive, self-important, condescending, and unbelievably petty. She inserts herself into matters that don’t concern her, offers opinions nobody asked for, and seems incapable of allowing other people to exist without making herself part of the equation.

Her presence isn’t commanding. It’s exhausting. But in her mind, she’s a freaking legend.

I Know La Gran Puta. I Met Her in the Army.

When I served in the U.S. Army, I encountered a woman who, to this day, remains the baddest bitch I’ve ever met in my life.

My drill sergeant.

That woman was LA GRAN PUTA.

She was the company first sergeant, responsible for the female barracks and the drill instructors across multiple platoons. She wasn’t some self-appointed authority figure. Her position came with actual responsibility, accountability, and the expectation that she could lead others under extraordinary pressure.

And damn, was she intimidating.

Imagine a terrifying combination of Linda Hamilton and the Guamanian version of Rosie Perez, with the authority to make your life a living hell.

I genuinely thought that woman was going to kill me.

But here’s the difference.

I respected the FUCK out of her.

Not simply because she frightened me. What I admired was her discipline, command, confidence, and the extraordinary level of authority she carried.

She didn’t have to convince anybody she was in charge. She was in charge.

And despite how terrified I was of her, I remember wishing that someday I could become even remotely close to the woman she was.

Think about that.

Here was someone who could scare the living crap out of me, and instead of resenting her, I wanted to become more like her.

That’s what genuine leadership can do. It can intimidate you, challenge you, and still inspire you to become something greater than yourself.

My company first sergeant didn't need to call herself an alpha. She was the STANDARD.

And that’s precisely why I find it ridiculous when certain women confuse their abrasive personalities with genuine authority.

I’ve experienced the real thing.

The Women Who Set the Standard

There are other women, including fictional characters, whose personalities illustrate the qualities I admire.

Take Stella Gibson, the detective superintendent in The Fall. Her intelligence, composure, and psychological awareness allow her to command a room without surrendering control of herself.

Dr. Wendy Carr in Mindhunter demonstrates another kind of authority: intellectual confidence grounded in knowledge, observation, and critical thinking.

And Detective Rosa Diaz from Brooklyn Nine-Nine? Intimidating, fiercely independent, blunt as hell, and completely uninterested in anybody’s approval. Yet beneath that exterior are competence, loyalty, and integrity.

Then there’s Julie Andrews.

Yes, Julie freaking Andrews.

I mention her because I genuinely struggle to find a flaw in that woman.

She represents an entirely different expression of strength: grace, elegance, composure, professionalism, and an extraordinary ability to command respect without sacrificing dignity.

And that matters because power doesn’t have to look like aggression.

It can be refined. It can be understated. It can be quiet.

These women are vastly different, but the underlying qualities remain: authentic confidence, intelligence, competence, and an unmistakable sense of self.

And none of those qualities require being an insufferable asshole.

The Psychology of the Self-Appointed Alpha

What fascinates me about these women is the discrepancy between how they perceive themselves and how their behavior actually affects everyone around them.

They present themselves as experienced, knowledgeable, and indispensable. They want to be recognized as the person who knows everything, understands everything, and has the final word on everything.

Yet they seem incapable of tolerating being challenged, excessively concern themselves with what other people are doing, and constantly find reasons to criticize, correct, or control situations that have little to do with them.

They confuse being outspoken with being intelligent, aggression with assertiveness, and confrontation with courage.

And let’s not forget the gossip.

Cheeze an’ crackerz, the gossip.

These women seem to know everybody’s business, have an opinion about everybody’s decisions, and somehow manage to become involved in conflicts that never concerned them in the first place.

They can be charming when an audience is watching and absolute jackals when nobody important is around.

They’re condescending, manipulative, vindictive, and remarkably skilled at making other people appear incompetent while presenting themselves as innocent.

When they make mistakes, responsibility suddenly becomes negotiable. When someone challenges them, the narrative changes. They’re misunderstood, unfairly criticized, or somehow the victim of a situation they helped create.

And the pettiness? Unbelievable.

A minor disagreement can become a personal vendetta. An innocent comment becomes an offense. A simple difference of opinion becomes an opportunity to antagonize someone until they either submit or react.

Some people appear so invested in maintaining superiority that even the smallest challenge to their ego becomes an unnecessary production.

That’s not confidence. That’s insecurity masquerading as authority.

And it’s exhausting.

Being Feared Is Not the Same as Being Respected

One of the greatest misconceptions these women seem to have is that people tolerate their behavior because they respect them.

Not necessarily.

Sometimes people tolerate you because they’re professionals. Sometimes they’re avoiding unnecessary confrontation. Sometimes they simply don’t have the energy to deal with another one of your petty little performances.

Silence isn’t admiration. Compliance isn’t loyalty. And someone’s unwillingness to engage with your bullshit doesn’t mean you’ve won.

It may simply mean they have better things to do.

What’s particularly troubling is how easily this behavior becomes normalized. People describe someone as having a strong personality, as though that somehow excuses hostility, condescension, manipulation, or an inability to coexist peacefully with others.

But being difficult isn’t a professional qualification.

And when this behavior is repeatedly tolerated, the most antagonistic personality can become the most influential, not because she’s particularly competent, but because everyone else has learned that challenging her comes with unnecessary consequences.

Which raises a larger question:

When did being an insufferable asshole become synonymous with being a strong woman?

Because they’re not the same thing.

Not even close.

Not Every Bitch Is an Alpha Bitch

I have no problem with a woman who knows her worth. I admire women who are direct, uncompromising, intelligent, and unwilling to be intimidated.

But there’s a significant difference between a woman who demands excellence and one who demands attention.

Between someone who demonstrates leadership and someone who simply enjoys exercising control.

Between a woman who has earned the respect of her peers and one who believes her personality alone entitles her to it.

Calling yourself an alpha doesn’t make you one.

Being the loudest bitch in the room doesn’t make you the smartest.

And having an opinion about everything doesn’t mean you have anything worthwhile to say.

And for those who believe age, seniority, or experience automatically entitles them to everybody else’s admiration, allow me to clarify something.

Getting older doesn’t automatically make you wiser. Having more experience doesn’t necessarily make you more competent. And spending years telling other people what to do doesn’t mean you’ve developed the qualities of a leader.

Respect is not something you inherit simply because you’ve been around longer.

You earn that shit.

A Little Common Ground Among the Rest of Us

Perhaps the most interesting thing about these personalities is how recognizable they are.

Different workplaces. Different generations. Different cultures. Yet so many of us recognize the same patterns: the gossip, the self-importance, the unsolicited criticism, the unnecessary confrontations, the manipulation, and the endless need to establish superiority.

And perhaps that’s where the common ground exists.

Not in collectively hating another woman, but in recognizing behavior that is unnecessarily divisive, destructive, and exhausting, and refusing to confuse it with strength.

I’m not interested in competing with these women. I’m not interested in proving I’m the bigger “bitch.” And I certainly have no desire to become another version of the very personality I find so unbearable.

I’ve met a woman whose authority was so awesome that I genuinely feared her. But what stayed with me wasn’t that fear. It was the respect and admiration she inspired.

She didn’t leave me wanting to tear her down.

She left me wanting to become better.

And I think that says something about the difference between a woman who truly possesses power and one who spends her life trying to convince everyone else that she does.

In fact, I suppose I should thank the others.

Thank you for reminding me exactly who I am not and who I never want to become.

Because being a formidable woman is one thing.

Being a petty, conniving, self-important, manipulative pain in everybody’s ass is quite another.

La Gran Puta is a title you earn.

The rest of em just need to shut the fuck up.

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Water can create a variety of sounds

depending on where it’s coming from

or where it’s going.

A single drop feels like a feather,

the sound barely touching your ear,

but when millions of droplets fall from the sky,

an eerie echo encompasses the air.

When it flows through a flat river bed,

it becomes so serene and beautiful

that it can gently put you to sleep.

But when millions of gallons descend

through a boulder-infested river

that leads into a towering granite drop,

the power alone is so gargantuan

that the thought of experiencing

the weight of that mass

forces my chest to collapse,

and the tiny particles of humility,

form a gravitational pull,

and into it,

falls the Ego.

Labyrinth Fire is about the quiet terror of staying too long in something that kills you slowly.

It’s about the moment you choose yourself. The moment you walk away, even if you’re still burning.

This poem was born from the wreckage of a toxic love.

For anyone who’s ever had to save themselves: this is for you 🧡

When you’re living in a labyrinth,
Death tastes sharp like mint.
You welcome the dark with open eyes,
Singing blind beneath the skies,
Letting your soul in silence drift,
Untethered by a mortal lift.

I’m not afraid to meet the end,
Though some think I just pretend.
They say I jest, or lie, or play
Unknowing hearts led astray.
But life itself, though long and bright,
Feels dulled beneath the absent light.

How do you live without a flame?
How does a soul survive no name?
That hollow ache will take its toll,
An echo gnawing through the soul.

And though I breathe with no desire
To end it all, to quench the fire,
I swear to you, I’ve known the blaze,
That fierce, unspoken, deadly haze.

Let lie the ones who rot in waste,
Who steals your grace without a trace.
They’ll drag you down, demand you stay
While feeding on your light each day.

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Arthur’s departure was foreseen and happened on a beautiful Saturday morning.
Whenever I dream of a tornado, I find myself alone, the vortex of a silent harbinger of change. A week before he passed, this dream’s tornado was the largest and darkest I had ever seen. The winds began to shift, growing heavy and unnervingly deliberate, as though the very fabric of the air had turned against itself. I looked out to my right, and beyond the limits of my perception, an F5 tornado loomed, vast and overwhelming. Its presence consumed the horizon, and the first thought that flooded my mind was Arthur. The winds were so intense I couldn’t move. The pull of the storm mirrored my dread, my instinct to act. When the winds weakened just enough, I ran to the three-story house where I had left him. I cannot recall how many times I called for him, my voice echoing through empty halls, but he was never found.

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That feeling, the suffocating panic from my dream, clung to me as I went to check on him in reality. And there he lay, still and serene, moments from his final breath. In that instant, my heart shattered. His eyes were wide open, filled with an eerie stillness, as if he had glimpsed something beyond this world. They held the weight of knowing, reflecting the quiet acceptance of what was coming, an expression I had seen before in those who had passed, a gaze that reached beyond the present into the unknown.

Sorrow and solace tangled together like two opposing forces colliding in my chest. Endings and beginnings, polar extremes erupted within me, an emotional supernova that felt as though it might rip my soul apart. The only outlet that didn’t destroy everything in my path was to sob uncontrollably, to let the flood spill out of me. Suffering loss is universal; life is suffering, after all. But this loss is scarring, not just a mark but an open wound that trembles with every memory. Loss can shake your soul like a tremor in the ground.

Dolores and Shadow, his once sweet companions, came to my mind, and I hope they are with him now wherever his journey has taken him. His presence lingers, sometimes as a soft echo in my ears, other times as a glimpse in the periphery of my vision. His endearing and joyous spirit has left an indelible mark, transforming into a beautiful memory that gracefully lingers in the fabric of my being.

My beloved Arturo.

It took over six months for me to be myself again. Before he passed away, I had already found out I couldn’t have children, and I was carrying a quiet sadness. I had finally found a truly good partner who loves me and whom I love, and realizing that I wouldn’t be able to have children with him was a private ache. Losing Arthur at the same time felt like too much.

It didn’t feel like heartbreak. It felt like extinction, like the end of a season so long that I had forgotten the feeling of warmth. I spent eight years in a relationship that eventually unraveled from the inside out. The last three were heavy with emotional damage, cracks too deep to ignore, betrayals too quiet to name. When it ended, it wasn’t sudden. It was the result of years of erosion. And even then, the end wasn’t really the end. What followed was grief, therapy, silence, and the long, slow re-entry into myself.

Almost ten years. That’s how long it took, being in it, coming undone, and trying to live again without the weight of someone else’s version of me. And when it was over, truly over, it was marked by more than just a breakup. It came with the death of my dog, my companion, through all of it. His passing felt like the final collapse, the last thread cut. I didn’t just lose him, I lost who I was when he was with me.

It felt like Yosemite. A canyon carved by time and sorrow. It was as tall and narrow as a redwood tree falling in slow motion, echoing down its hollow trunk until all that remained was dust. Not devastation, just stillness.

What came after wasn’t pain. It was a different kind of silence. A sacred one. A silence that felt like truth: nothing left to hold, no more illusions to keep warm.
And still, I remained. The version of me I had buried under years of compromise, fear, and pretending. She didn’t come back all at once. But she was still there, waiting beneath the collapse.

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💛 If my words have ever made you feel seen, grounded, or inspired, you can support my work with a small gift of gratitude. I write everything here freely—except my novel, which I’ll be publishing soon.

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In a city as culturally rich as Los Angeles, the slow removal of identity in public spaces, especially in something as seemingly trivial as a store’s music playlist, is more than a design choice. It’s a quiet cultural shift with loud consequences. I explore how the loss of culturally specific music in supermarkets and small businesses reflects a broader trend of cultural flattening, one that sacrifices authenticity for mass appeal. The music may change, but what’s really disappearing is the soul of the space and with it, the comfort, memory, and meaning that music brings to our everyday lives.

Southern California is a mosaic of global cultures, and a city like Los Angeles is where you can taste the world within a few blocks. Step into an Asian market and hear the warm hum of pop or traditional tunes; it’s not just background noise, it’s cultural essence. It’s humanity vibrating through the aisles, sung in unfamiliar words but familiar feelings. Visit MOULIN in Newport Beach, a charming French café, and you’re greeted with actual French employees, buttery pastries, and yes, music that gently whisks you to a lavender field in Provence. It’s not performative; it’s immersive. And that makes all the difference.

Go to Dick Church’s in Costa Mesa and you’ll find something similar. The music is classic American, a little country, maybe some jazz, that sets the tone for a hearty homestyle breakfast. The kind that makes you nostalgic for Aunt Meg from Twister, frying steak and eggs in a farmhouse kitchen. (R.I.P. Bill Paxton and Philip Seymour Hoffman, you are missed.)

In an Indian restaurant, hearing classical ragas or Bollywood hits means the garlic naan will definitely be fire. At Father Nature in Pasadena, where I grab a lavash wrap, the Mediterranean soundtrack adds a layer of beauty that spans from Armenia to France. Culture, especially around food, finds its greatest companion in music.

And not all of us have the luxury to travel the world. So when we enter a restaurant or shop owned by someone from another country, the music they play becomes a window, a fleeting but powerful glimpse into another way of life. No passport required. You don’t need to understand the lyrics to understand the soul.

But lately, something’s been happening. Slowly, quietly, the soul is being silenced.

Corporate stores are starting to strip the cultural DNA from these spaces. Packaging changes. Foreign languages are replaced by English. And most heartbreaking of all, the music changes. Take Vallarta, my beloved local Mexican supermarket. It used to feel like walking into the warmth of an abuela’s hug: familiar music, familiar smells, and the sounds of home. Now? It’s lost in the fog of corporate rebranding. More organized? Sure. Efficient? Fine. But sterile. Generic. And tragically, silent in the ways that matter.

I get it, they want to expand. Compete with Costco, Amazon, and Stater Bros. But in doing so, they’re losing what made them special in the first place: identity. The soul of a store is in its sensory details. The way it smells, the way it sounds, the people behind the counter who smile because you speak the same language, not just literally, but culturally.

Food without culture is just calories. And music without meaning is just noise. So why erase that for the sake of “mainstream appeal”? Why assume that comfort only comes from conformity?

Music carries memory. In every culture, across every continent, food and music are paired like old friends. In America, we do it too. Whether it’s a Fourth of July BBQ, Christmas dinner, or Sunday brunch, music completes the mood. And I’ll admit, though I’m not religious and personally can’t stand most Christmas music, there’s something about Carrie Underwood’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” that softens me up during the holidays. (Pro tip: the best track is “Let There Be Peace.”)

America was built by immigrants, people who brought their languages, recipes, music, and stories. And yet, the dominant narrative tells us to blend in, speak English, and let go of the "foreign" in favor of the familiar. But what is America if not a collection of the world’s best parts stitched together in glorious contradiction?

Yes, I’m ranting about a grocery store playlist. But don’t dismiss it. It’s never just the music. These subtle erasures are the beginning of full-blown homogenization. It’s the cultural equivalent of painting over a mural with beige.

I’m not uncomfortable in other people’s spaces. I don’t mind being the only Mexican in the room. I love hearing languages I don’t understand. I trust restaurants where the food matches the faces in the kitchen, where the music feels like a hometown I’ve never visited but instantly recognize.

So here’s what I really want to say:

Dear Corporate America,

Please, with all due respect, take your bland, beige playlists and kindly shove them back into your focus group folders. Bring back the Rancheras. Bring back the Románticos. Bring back the sabor.

Because some of us still find joy in the music of our mothers. Some of us remember where we come from. And some of us, a lot of us, aren’t afraid to celebrate it out loud.

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💛 If my words have ever made you feel seen, grounded, or inspired, you can support my work with a small gift of gratitude. I write everything here freely.

Donate: 👉 buymeacoffee.com/mabelcurativa

Who I am:

Connected to nature.

First-generation Mexican American.

Defiant since birth.

Who I was:

Struggled to believe people deserved to exist.

Angry

Depressed

Suicidal

Addicted to food

Who I want to become:

A better version of myself every day.

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*Photo above was taken by me in Hawaii, January 2024

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