Ever heard the saying, “This is a dream I’ve had since breakfast!”
No? Just me then.
Okay—this isn’t exactly that. But the urge did come on pretty quickly… sort of.
Books were always my secret when I was a kid. A secret because when I first fell in love with them, it wasn’t out of ease or comfort—it was out of necessity. I was barely managing the language, but I was desperate to understand what lived inside those pages. I didn’t have the words for it back then, but every chance I got, I slipped into the school library, judged books entirely by their covers (no regrets), grabbed whatever looked interesting, and quietly left with the librarian as my only witness.
I never told anyone what I picked. No one knew there were books in my bag. I was mostly left alone, and honestly? That’s how I liked it.
When I was just starting to get the hang of English, I would read and reread the same sentences until they finally clicked. When no one was around, I’d practice the words out loud. Eventually, that became my default—I read out loud to myself constantly. I needed to hear the words. Saying them made them feel more real, like they could exist outside my head.
Books became my escape. They let me dream far beyond my circumstances. At one point, they were all I had—and they weren’t even mine.
As I got older, my love of books became… obvious. I devoured stories the way most people binge TV shows (though let the record show—I do love TV too). I became that person in everyone’s life. The one who is always reading something.
My parents never loved that about me—and I don’t blame them. They were raised to believe books were for people with soft lives. People with time. People who could afford to daydream about made-up worlds and imaginary characters. We were not those people. We were not meant to be soft or lazy or lost in fantasy.
“Read your school books. Do your homework. Work hard.”
That was the gist of the speeches whenever I got a little too lost in the stacks.
It didn’t matter.
I kept reading. I kept hoarding books the way dragons hoard treasure (yes, I know). The only thing that changed was access. I’ve never lived a life without responsibility, and even when I was single, childless, and working, I didn’t have extra money for “wants” like books. I didn’t really start indulging until I was about 27—and even then, I never kept them. I read them and gave them away.
Blasphemous. I know.
It wasn’t until my mid-30s that I decided I was done parting with my greatest treasures. The pages of a book were more precious to me than almost any material thing I owned. And more importantly—my thoughts lived in them. Scribbled in the margins. Underlined. Annotated. If you want to truly know me—or anyone—you’ll find us in the margins of our books.
All of this is to say: I’ve loved books for as long as I can remember. But as I’ve grown older (and wiser 😉), I’ve realized something important—reading is a privilege. One I wasn’t always afforded. One I wasn’t always capable of. For me, reading was an act of growth. Of rebellion. Of survival.
Most readers dream of opening a cozy little bookshop—sipping warm drinks, playing soft music, yapping about books all day. I never dreamed of that. What I wanted was simpler and bigger at the same time.
I wanted to offer others what was once offered to me:
A space without judgment.
Books to get lost in.
A sense of community I never got to experience growing up.
To represent my culture. To uplift BIPOC authors and Latine stories—especially in the current political climate—is not just something I want to do. It’s my honor. And honestly? It’s my duty.
I told myself for years that I couldn’t do this. Not enough money. Not enough time. No plan. Excuse after excuse. Then one day, a friend asked me, “What’s stopping you?” I rattled off my list, and they simply said, “Can’t you do it online?”
That conversation replayed in my head all day. All night. And the next day—shockingly—I started reading. About how to do it. How to build it. How to make it real.
For the last six months, I’ve been consuming, inhaling, and devouring information as I worked toward this moment. The day I finally get to say:
Casa Luna is live and open for business.
I hope you feel the intention behind every book chosen—from the raw and real to the fantastically silly and romantic. You don’t have to dig through my margins anymore. Just look at the shelves.
Stay tuned.
Let’s continue this next chapter together. 🌙📚
