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I found myself in a conversation with my parents about my childhood. Out of nowhere, my father offered an unsolicited apology for things that, truthfully, I’d never held against him. I turned to him and said:

“You don’t need to apologize. If I’m still blaming you for my problems at 45, the problem is me now, not you.”

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This exchange stayed with me for days. Not because my childhood was marked by any deep wounds—quite the opposite. I consider myself fortunate to have grown up in a loving home, with no major traumas caused by malice or neglect. But it reminded me how easy it is, even decades later, to let old narratives dictate our present feelings or choices.

One of the first management classes I ever took introduced a concept that has guided me throughout my life and career: the difference between being the captain of your own ship and being a pawn of fate. In other words, do you believe you are steering the vessel—or merely being tossed around by waves you can’t control?

Psychologists call this your locus of control—a term coined by Julian Rotter in the 1950s. People with an internal locus of control believe they can influence their own outcomes through their actions, decisions, and mindset. Those with an external locus of control feel that life “happens” to them, shaped by luck, fate, or the actions of others.

Research consistently shows that individuals who feel they are captains of their own ships—who believe they can affect their own fate—tend to be more successful, resilient, and healthier both physically and mentally. In a study published in Psychological Bulletin, researchers found that an internal locus of control was strongly linked to higher achievement in school, greater career success, better stress management, and lower rates of depression and anxiety.

The Brain’s Bias Toward Blame

There’s even a neurological angle to this. The human brain is wired to seek cause-and-effect explanations for the events in our lives. When something goes wrong—especially in childhood—our brains look for someone to blame. Blame, in the short term, offers relief because it creates a narrative. But over time, it becomes a prison.

Neuroscience research suggests that chronic blame keeps the brain stuck in a threat-response state. The amygdala stays activated, scanning for danger and fueling stories of victimhood. Conversely, when we shift into ownership, the prefrontal cortex—the brain’s center of rational thought and planning—becomes more engaged. We become better problem-solvers. We see options instead of obstacles.

I’ve seen many times how people say they want to be the ones steering the ship of their lives—but when faced with real control and responsibility, they’re terrified. Some even sabotage themselves, unconsciously creating chaos or excuses so they can keep blaming someone or something else. Because the truth is, becoming the captain of your own ship can be hard—and incredibly scary. Psychologically, this fear often stems from loss aversion and the brain’s preference for certainty, even if that certainty is negative. Neuroscientists have shown that the amygdala—the brain’s threat detector—activates more strongly when we anticipate potential failure or rejection. It can feel safer, albeit limiting, to surrender control and blame external forces rather than risk the discomfort and vulnerability that come with owning our choices and mistakes. Research on learned helplessness also reveals how repeated experiences of feeling powerless can train the brain to avoid agency altogether, even when freedom is possible. Stepping into true ownership isn’t just a mindset shift—it’s a brave neurological rewiring that takes practice and self-compassion.

A Lens for the Hispanic Community

There’s another layer for our Hispanic community. Research shows that minorities and historically marginalized groups often report a more external locus of control—not because they lack drive or resilience, but because real systemic barriers, discrimination, and limited access to resources have repeatedly shown them that effort doesn’t always equal outcome. Claude Steele’s work on stereotype threat demonstrates how simply being aware of negative stereotypes can undermine confidence and fuel stress. Chronic discrimination also activates the brain’s stress responses, making it harder to engage in proactive, problem-solving thinking.

Yet, other research is clear: cultivating an internal locus of control, even in small ways, is a powerful predictor of resilience, success, and mental health in marginalized communities. It’s a delicate balance—acknowledging real structural obstacles while still claiming our power to act where we can.

A Call to Action for Our Community

To my fellow Hispanics: as we grow into the largest and most influential minority in America, we’re standing at a powerful crossroads. But to truly rise to the occasion, we must look inward as well as outward. Many of us carry invisible chains—stories we’ve inherited, biases we’ve internalized, and moments when life taught us that the world happens to us, not because of us. This external locus of control can keep us playing small, waiting for permission, or blaming systems without also seizing our own agency.

It’s time to recognize those chains—and break them. Yes, systemic barriers are real. But so is our power to shape our destinies. Let’s own our stories, challenge limiting beliefs, and step into leadership in our families, our workplaces, and our communities. If we’re to claim our place as a force in this country, we can’t just be passengers on the ship. We must be its captains.

An Invitation to Reflect

So here’s my invitation to you:

Take a moment to reflect. Consider where you might still be assigning blame—whether to people, systems, or circumstances—and where you might step into greater ownership. Use these questions as a starting point:

🌟 Where am I still blaming someone or something from my past for my current situation?

* Is that blame serving me—or keeping me stuck?

🌟 In what areas of my life do I feel like a captain steering the ship?

* Where do I feel like a passenger being carried along?

🌟 When challenges arise, do I focus more on what I can control or on what’s outside my control?

🌟 Are there any old narratives about my childhood or past experiences that I’m still carrying, even if they no longer fit who I am today?

🌟 How might taking ownership—rather than assigning blame—change how I feel about a current problem?

🌟 What’s one small action I could take this week to reinforce the idea that I’m in charge of my own life?

🌟 How does my self-talk sound when things go wrong? Do I speak to myself as a victim of circumstance—or as someone capable of finding solutions?

🌟 Who in my life models ownership and accountability? What can I learn from how they handle setbacks?

Because shifting from “life happens to me” to “I make life happen” isn’t just a slogan—it’s a journey. And for our community, it may be one of the most important journeys we’ll ever take

We were at the grocery store checkout line, me and my son Santino. He was three or four years old.

Like good Hispanics in Miami, we had only spoken Spanish at home. English was brand new since he started school.

Then, with complete innocence and the timing only toddlers have, he turned to me and asked:

“Mamá, ¿cómo se dice c*ño en inglés?”

I froze—not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I did. And in that split-second, I had a choice. React—or reflect.

That’s when I ran up to the balcony (not literally).

In management and leadership, there’s a concept from Leadership on the Line by Heifetz and Linsky: great leaders move between the dance floor and the balcony. (Click here to purchase book https://amzn.to/4ntHChN)

The dance floor is where the action is. You’re in the mix—answering emails, making decisions, putting out fires, managing egos, agendas, and time.

The balcony is where you zoom out. You look at the system, the dynamics, the unspoken tensions. You ask: What’s really happening here? What’s the pattern? What’s the opportunity?

That day in the store, I realized: if I overreacted to this moment, I might teach Santino that curiosity is dangerous. That asking uncomfortable questions isn’t safe. And I knew that if I didn’t get this right, it might not be a big deal today—but it could be a very big deal later.

So I smiled, took a breath, and came back down to the dance floor. I said,

“Sh*t, Santino… pero eso no se dice.”

Playful. Clear. No shame. Just enough.

And here’s the deeper truth: whether you’re leading a team or raising a child, the same principle applies.

If you never step onto the balcony, you miss the bigger picture.

You miss the why beneath the behavior.

You miss the pattern behind the power struggle.

You miss them—not just the version you want them to be, but the person they are becoming.

When we manage only from the dance floor, we micromanage. We react. We confuse urgency with importance. We confuse authority with influence. We confuse activity with progress.

But staying too long on the balcony has its risks, too. We become distant. We over-intellectualize. We turn leadership—or parenting—into a performance review, not a relationship.

The best leaders—and the best parents—know when to switch.

They know when to pause a meeting to ask what’s not being said.

They know when to respond with empathy, not just policy.

They know that trust is built in those small moments, where someone dares to ask a question and watches how you respond.

This is leadership. This is love.

And it takes practice.

It means asking yourself not just “What’s the next right step?” but “What season are we in? What story is unfolding here? Am I reacting to the moment or leading toward the mission?”

And when I mess it up—and I do—I remind myself:

Clarity doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from perspective.

That one moment in the grocery store? It taught me more about leadership than most corporate training ever has. Because leadership isn’t just in the boardroom. It’s in the carpool lane, the Slack thread, the tough feedback conversation, the bedtime question.

So whatever role you’re in—manager, mentor, mother—take your balcony moment.

Step back. See clearly. Then come back down and lead with heart.

Because sometimes leadership sounds like a quarterly strategy.

And sometimes it sounds like:

“Sh*t, Santino… pero eso no se dice.”

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I’ve spent my life surrounded by generous, selfless, hardworking Latinos—people who would give you the shirt off their back and a cafecito to go with it. But ask them to receive help? That’s a different story. There’s often a hesitation. A pause. A quick “No, gracias” even when they’re drowning.

And I get it. Because I’ve done it too.

For many of us, especially those raised in Latino households, help can feel like a luxury we haven’t earned—or worse, a debt we can’t repay.

Rooted in Resilience, Raised in Resistance

Many of our families come from a lineage of survival. Of migration. Of starting over. Of making something out of nothing. Our abuelos and abuelas didn’t ask for help because no one was offering it. They figured it out. They endured. That legacy lives in our bones. It shows up in our grit—but also in our guardedness.

In our culture, strength often means self-sufficiency. There’s honor in the hustle. Pride in pushing through. But at what cost?

Research by cultural psychologist Dr. Maritza Montero highlights the tension between communitarian values and individual resistance to vulnerability. In her work, particularly “Community Psychology and Latin American Liberation” (Montero & Sonn, 2009), she describes how historical traumas and colonial legacies have shaped an ethos of silent endurance in Latin America—especially among women.

We Are Not a Monolith

It’s important to say this too: Latinos are not a monolith. While many of us share cultural values like familismo(family-centeredness) or personalismo (relationship-based trust), the way we experience and express those values can vary widely based on our country of origin, immigration story, generation, language, and socioeconomic status.

The Cuban exile story I grew up in is not the same as my Dominican, Mexican, or Salvadoran friends’. And yet, I’ve noticed a shared reluctance—rooted in dignity and pride—to ask for help. It may look different in Miami than in Chicago, but it often sounds the same: “Yo puedo sola.”  

Help as a Relationship, Not a Transaction

There’s another layer too: reciprocity. In Latino culture, help is rarely transactional—but it is relational. We don’t like to “owe” anyone because relationships matter deeply. So if we’re unsure how—or when—we’ll return the favor, we may decline altogether.

We’ve been conditioned to believe we must earn our place before we even step into the room. We carry the weight of representation—of being the “first,” the “only,” or the “exception.” That pressure makes receiving feel like taking.

Inherited Scripts That No Longer Serve Us

When you’ve internalized messages like:

* “Don’t air your dirty laundry.”

* “You should be grateful you’re here.”

* “La familia comes first.”

* “You can’t rely on anyone but yourself.”

…it becomes difficult to discern when asking for help is a healthy act of connection—not a failure of independence.

Receiving help is an act of vulnerability. And vulnerability, when you’ve been raised to equate it with risk, feels unsafe.

For many of us, that fear isn’t abstract—it’s generational.

Our parents—or grandparents—risked everything to come to this country. They left behind language, roots, professions, sometimes even family, all in pursuit of stability, safety, and opportunity. That leap was often born out of necessity, not choice. And because they had to survive in unfamiliar systems—where one mistake could cost a job, a visa, or even a sense of dignity—they became experts in risk avoidance.

We inherited their caution. Not necessarily in the form of warnings, but as deeply embedded behaviors:

* Be twice as prepared.

* Don’t let them see you struggle.

* Stay under the radar.

* Do not ask for anything you haven’t earned ten times over.

Receiving help is an act of vulnerability. And vulnerability, when you’ve been raised to equate it with risk, feels unsafe.

For many of us, that fear isn’t abstract—it’s inherited.

Our parents—or grandparents—risked everything to come to this country. They left behind language, careers, community, and certainty in search of stability and safety. And in doing so, they developed a playbook for survival: stay alert, don’t ask for too much, avoid mistakes, don’t draw attention. That script got passed down—not just in words, but in energy, in glances, in expectations. It became a quiet code many of us learned to follow instinctively.

In that context, asking for help—exposing your needs, your gaps, your humanness—feels like stepping into dangerous territory. Because it goes against everything you were taught about how to stay safe in a world that wasn’t built for you.

And yet… the world is shifting. We, Latinos, are no longer just surviving—we are leading, building, and influencing.

Even if today we are called the Hispanic Boom, the hidden potential of America, the fastest-growing market, the greatest opportunity for workforce and economic growth—none of that will be fully realized unless we rise to meet it.

And rising requires unlearning.

It requires us to examine those subtle rules that once protected us—but may now be keeping us stuck. We have to learn to discern: when are we wisely playing it safe, and when are we shrinking to stay comfortable?

There is a version of us—individually and collectively—that is powerful, whole, and deeply needed. But to get there, we must be willing to loosen our grip on the survival scripts that no longer serve us.

Because the next chapter of our growth doesn’t require us to suffer in silence. It requires us to trust, to ask, and to receive—without apology.

To be vulnerable is to risk being misunderstood, pitied, rejected, or indebted. And for a generation raised by survivors, that feels like playing with fire.

But here's the twist: our parents took the biggest risk of all—starting over. And many of us are now being called to take a different kind of risk: trusting others, letting ourselves be seen, and allowing ourselves to receive.

Because healing, growth, and connection also require risk. And this time, the risk is worth it.

Personal Note: What I’m Still Learning

One of the first times I really wrestled with receiving help was when my son was born. He was the first—my first child, the first grandchild, the first nephew. In our family, his arrival felt like a coronation. Everyone wanted to help. And for someone like me, who had been raised to be fiercely independent, it was disorienting.

I didn’t know how to let others step in. I had always handled things on my own. I didn’t ask for favors. I didn’t lean. I didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, or become reliant only for them to pull it if I became dependent on it.

But now, there were bottles to clean, diapers to change, sleepless nights to survive—and a full-time job running a 24/7 newsroom in a city where breaking news happened every five minutes. I was exhausted. Still, when my grandmother started making homemade purees for my baby, I found myself feeling… guilty.

I didn’t even plan to make the purees myself—I barely had the time—but I felt like I should. I wondered: Isn’t this my job? Am I already failing by outsourcing parts of motherhood before I’ve even figured it out?

I confided in my father one day, torn between gratitude and inadequacy. I told him I was worried about relying too much on everyone. I didn’t want to become dependent. I didn’t want to disappoint.

And he said something that changed me.

“The greatest gift you can give someone is purpose.”

He explained that even though it might seem like a small act—my grandmother making food for her great-grandson—it gave her profound meaning. It wasn’t a burden. It was a calling. And by letting her do it, I wasn’t failing at all. I was giving her the opportunity to love, to serve, to belong in this new chapter of our family.

He urged me not to take that away. And he was right. God knows I needed the help. That simple reframing helped me see that receiving isn't about weakness—it’s about allowing others to step into purpose, too.

That moment helped me loosen my grip on the myth of self-sufficiency. Because love is often expressed through service. And to receive it fully is to trust that you're worthy of being held, even when you didn’t earn it by doing it all yourself.

Permission to Receive

For Latinas especially, who often carry the triple burden of cultural preservation, caregiving, and proving our worth in systems not built for us, asking for help can feel like admitting we’re not enough.

But what if the opposite is true?

What if asking for help signals wisdom, not weakness? What if receiving it says, “I know my value, and I trust you enough to share the weight”?

If you’re reading this and nodding quietly, just know: you’re not alone. There’s a reason this feels hard. It’s not just you—it’s the cultural soil we grew from.

But we get to rewrite the script.

So the next time someone offers help—pause. Breathe. And try saying: “Yes, thank you.”

You might be surprised at what flows in.

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In the newsroom, we have a saying when we’re chasing a story or trying to crack a new angle: “Throw all the spaghetti up against the wall and see what sticks.”

It’s a funny visual—no one wants pasta on their newsroom walls—but it’s the best way I know to describe experimentation. And it’s not just for journalists. It’s for anyone stepping into leadership, turning a page in their career, or writing the next chapter of their life.

The Myth of the Perfect Plan

When I first became a news director, I thought I needed to know everything. Have the perfect plan. Chart the perfect path. And I learned fast that the real world doesn’t work that way.

Markets shift. Audiences surprise you. People leave. New ideas emerge. The same goes for our personal and professional growth. Whether we’re building a team, launching a business, or navigating a reinvention, it’s rare that the first draft of anything is the one that sticks.

Leadership—and life—isn’t about certainty. It’s about curiosity.

Test, Learn, Iterate

In newsrooms, we pitch dozens of story angles. We try headlines, images, formats. We test different talent in front of the camera. And we’re relentless about one thing: learning what actually works.

That same approach fuels effective leaders and innovators. The best leaders aren’t the ones who avoid mistakes—they’re the ones who try, study the outcome, and adjust quickly.

Researchers call this “learning agility.” It’s the muscle that lets you pivot when reality smacks your plan in the face. In business, this is the essence of agile methodology, design thinking, or even the “minimum viable product” concept in startups: get something out there, measure the response, and iterate fast.

Throw the spaghetti. See what sticks. Learn why some noodles fall.

Permission to Try (and Fail)

But here’s the part many people miss: experimenting takes permission.

* Permission to not know the answer yet.

* Permission to be seen trying.

* Permission to fail in small, smart ways so you can win bigger later.

I’ve seen talented professionals stay stuck because they’re waiting for a “perfect” idea before taking action. The irony is that clarity usually comes from action, not before it.

The New Chapter Mindset

If you’re stepping into a new chapter—a new role, a new city, a new purpose-driven mission—this mindset matters even more. Reinvention isn’t about certainty; it’s about curiosity and courage.

* Launch the pilot program.

* Test the new product.

* Write the first page of the book.

* Raise your hand for the stretch project.

* Record the video even if it’s imperfect.

Some things will flop. Others will stick. And the ones that stick will shape your new chapter far better than any five-year plan sitting in a drawer.

A Latina Perspective: Spaghetti and Sazón

As a Latina, I’ve sometimes felt pressure to get it right the first time—to prove myself, to avoid wasting anyone’s time or resources. But over the years, I’ve learned that creativity and innovation thrive on trying many flavors, adding a little sazón here, a dash of confidence there, and being willing to taste-test along the way.

If the spaghetti doesn’t stick? Wipe down the wall. Boil another pot.

Because sometimes, the messiest kitchens produce the most delicious meals—and the bravest leaders.

So, what spaghetti are you willing to throw today?

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Welcome to The Power of Strategic Networking—a talk rooted in neuroscience, business frameworks and research and some personal storytelling.

I’m Teri Arvesu, and in this shortened version of my presentation, I share how I went from knowing everyone in Miami to knowing no one in Chicago—and how that shift forced me to learn the true power of intentional relationships.

This isn’t your typical networking advice. No awkward mixers. No “elevator pitch” gimmicks.

Instead, I’ll show you:

* Why networking is a skill, not a personality trait

* The neuroscience behind why it feels hard—and how to make it feel natural

* How curiosity and consistency build trust

* The 3 types of social capital you must cultivate (Bonding, Bridging, Linking)

* Why weak ties often bring the biggest opportunities

* How to map your network, spot your gaps, and create a plan

* Why Latina women especially need to reframe networking as purpose, not self-promotion

* I also share personal stories and offer frameworks like the 5x5 Rule, the Personal Board of Directors, and the Franklin Effect.

💡 Whether you’re building your brand, planning a career pivot, or leading with heart—this conversation will help you make networking feel more aligned, more strategic, and more human.

📬 Want more tools like this?Subscribe to my Substack: https://substack.com/@thetagcollab

**CORRECTION PLEASE NOTE THAT DUNBAR RESEARCH WAS DONE IN THE 1990’S NOT THE 70’S.

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