As a little girl growing up in Colombia, the world felt both impossibly vast and intimately small. Vast, because the Andes mountains stretched beyond the horizon, and the Amazon rainforest whispered secrets in a language I couldn’t yet understand. Small, because everything that mattered—family, faith, food, and the fierce rhythm of cumbia—happened within a few blocks of my grandmother’s tiled courtyard.
To paint a picture of that childhood is to dip a brush in colors that don’t exist anywhere else. It is not the Colombia of news headlines or Netflix narcoseries. It is the Colombia of foggy mornings in the altiplano, the scent of guava and wet earth, and the sound of my aunt’s voice singing while she ironed ruanas.
As a little girl growing up in Colombia, my first lullabies weren’t soft. They were loud. Not violent—just vivo. The crack of a chiva bus backfiring on a cobblestone hill. The pock-pock-pock of my mother patting masa into arepas at 6 AM. The metallic cling of an aguardiente bottle cap hitting the floor during a parranda.
Silence was suspicious. Silence meant someone was sick, or the power was out, or—worst of all—that the coffee had run out.
On Saturdays, my abuela would turn on the radio to Caracol while she shelled habas (fava beans) into a chipped ceramic bowl. I would sit at her feet, my small fingers trying to mimic her speed, and listen to the vallenato accordion weep about lost loves and wayward mules. “This,” she’d say, tapping her temple, “is the map of our soul. Never forget the rhythm.” as a little girl growing up in colombia
I never did.
As a little girl growing up in Colombia, your day never begins with an alarm clock. It begins with the tierra (earth). If you lived in the Eje Cafetero (Coffee Axis), you woke to the smell of wet soil and parchment coffee drying on clay patios. In the bustling capital of Bogotá, you woke to the tiple (a small guitar-like instrument) of a street vendor selling pan de yuca or almojábanas.
Breakfast was a ritual of efficiency and love. My mother would slice a arepa—crunchy on the outside, soft and buttery on the inside—and top it with hogao (a slow-cooked tomato and onion sauce) or a crumble of suero costeño. As a little girl growing up in Colombia, you learned quickly that food is the love language. A bandeja paisa wasn't just a plate; it was a declaration of abundance: beans, rice, chicharrón, avocado, fried egg, and plantain all fighting for space on a single platter.
Not all aspects are idyllic. Many little girls in Colombia grow up aware of: As a Little Girl Growing Up in Colombia:
Yet, a striking theme is resilience. Colombian girls often display strong community bonds, humor, adaptability, and pride in their regional identity—whether paisa (from Antioquia region), costeña (from the coast), rola (from Bogotá), or valluna (from Cali region).
Our house in a small pueblo outside Bogotá had no central heating. It didn’t need it. The cold came straight from the páramo, biting my ears as I walked to school in a navy blue skirt and wool tights. But the cold was a friend. It meant my mother would make chocolate santafereño—thick, with cheese melted at the bottom of the mug and a chunk of almojábana floating like a treasure.
Every morning as a little girl growing up in Colombia, I learned that comfort is not a temperature. It is a ritual.
The backyard held a guayabo (guava) tree that sagged under the weight of fruit. My cousins and I would climb it to spy on the neighbor’s rooster, whispering about which one of us would move to “the city” first. We believed Medellín was a fairy tale kingdom and Cartagena was underwater. We weren’t far off. The Scent of Morning: More Than Just Coffee
Play reflects Colombia’s diverse geography and urban-rural divide:
If there is one rule for a little girl in Colombia, it is that affection is not optional—it is the currency of existence. From the moment she wakes up, she is immersed in a culture of physical touch.
Greeting everyone in the room with a kiss on the cheek is not just a formality; it is mandatory. A Colombian girl learns early that she must greet tías, tíos, and neighbors with a warm "buenos días" and a kiss. This fosters a sense of community and belonging. She is rarely alone. She grows up surrounded by extended family, where cousins are often treated like siblings, and godparents (padrinos) play an active, authoritative role in her life.