Returning to the Root to Heal
-Slash and Burn-
This is a story of fire, memory, and rebirth. It begins in silence a silence that has echoed through the women of my family for generations. A silence that broke the day I learned my mother had been sexually abused by a close relative. That revelation shattered the fragile architecture of memory, reshaping my understanding of her life, my lineage, and myself. It forced me to ask: How do we remember? How do we heal? How do we live after violence?
A photograph of my relative, who sexually assaulted my mother when she was a child. I used this archival portrait as a form of catharsis, asking myself how one can reimagine an archive and a memory after realizing that the person you grew up with was a hidden abuser, protected by silence.
The scorpion, a symbol of protection, transformation, and inner strength, emerges as a guardian of hidden energies. A relative of mine was stung several times by scorpions and used to proudly tell the story we even saw him as a kind of hero. But when we learned he had abused my mother, everything changed. When I later came across this scorpion, I chose to believe it represented my ancestors returning in its form not to harm, but to protect my mother, to protect all of us.
Fire burning the forest, set by someone who exploited the land. Slash-and-burn is a technique used to clear and fertilize land with ash. However, over time, it became a form of land exploitation. In resistance, In some forest in Costa Rica that they use this technique the earth began to regenerate itself, searching for its roots to survive the abuse. Many soils have been rescued from severe exploitation after a shock, they slowly begin to green again.
Portrait of my relative, who sexually assaulted my mother when she was a child.
A dead leaf nourishes the soil with its nutrients, water, and microorganisms giving life to other species. I like to think that just as this leaf died, so too can our pain die giving way to new stories of survival and resilience. Stories that burn old bridges and bring relief and healing to the generations that follow.
In Latin America, these questions are not just personal they are collective. In 2024 alone, Costa Rica’s public health system reported 11,265 women as victims of violence. The most affected group: girls and teens aged 10 to 19, with 758 cases per 100,000 inhabitants. They are followed by girls under 10 (438 per 100,000) and women over 65 (410 per 100,000). These numbers tell a brutal truth: across all stages of life, the female body is systematically violated.
My project emerges from this reality, blending personal history with artistic exploration to confront the legacy of sexual violence passed down through my maternal line, including my own story. Through natural elements, textures, and ancestral symbols, I search for healing not only for myself but for the women who came before me and those who will come after.
Horses have historically been subjected to violence through human domination. At the same time, they symbolize strength and freedom, especially when wild and untouched by humans.
Like a gentle yet powerful dandelion, I see a new generation that speaks and seeks freedom through a single breath, scattering seeds to bloom elsewhere.
Nature is both degenerative and powerful. And just as we are nature, leaves fall and die, nourishing the soil for a new rebirth, one that returns as a vibrant green.
A portrait of my mother with her abuser. Stones carry memory. It is heavy to carry a history, but stones evolve too, like memory, transformed in nature.
My great-grandmother at the age of 14. At that time, she fled her home to escape the sexual and physical abuse inflicted by her stepfather. She was homeless for a period after leaving. The golden tones in this photograph symbolize her divine nature and inner wisdom. Though abuse tried to extinguish her light, her strength endured a strength that now lives in me. Through this image, I raise my voice for all of us who have survived abuse and violence.
As one tree withers and dies, another blooms—just like the cycles of life. Sometimes our stories must end for new ones to be born, to heal, and to begin again. Nature teaches us: where something fades, something else can flourish
A portrait of my mother at the age when she suffered abuse at the hands of relative.
As I enter motherhood, I feel an urgent need to break this cycle. I turn to the forest, to the elements fire, earth, water, air. The horse brings healing. The snake sheds its skin. Fire burns and transforms. The tree dies and is reborn, its strength drawn from unseen roots. The scorpion, guardian of transformation, becomes a symbol of protection and inner power.
This project is an act of resistance. It is our collective voice saying: we were hurt, but we are still here. By voicing our pain, we resist the silence. We refuse to be defined by it. These stories are not confessions they are declarations of existence.
Healing, I’ve learned, is not forgetting. It is remembering differently. It is watching a forest regrow after a burn. It is seeing my daughter like a golden sprout pushing through ash. My grandmothers survived the pain. Now it is my turn to be reborn burying grief so it may decompose and nourish something new.
