I grew up in a village in western Asturias in the 1980s, surrounded by mountains and forests, where life allowed me to be completely free. There was no rush. My childhood unfolded between nature and the routines of rural life, where every day felt like a new adventure.
I spent afternoons building huts in the woods — gathering branches, leaves, anything I could find — and creating my own refuge among the trees. There, I felt like I owned the world, a tireless explorer, without anyone telling me when or where to stop.
Jumping into my grandmother’s haystack was like flying for a few seconds, with laughter echoing in my ears while dust floated all around. And when the heat became too much, there was nothing better than swimming in the Navia River or one of its many tributaries. I could get lost for hours in the mountains, climbing rocks, running along trails, following the streams as if they were my compass.
There was no fear, only the sensation of freedom. My mother knew I would always return when the sun began to set and the crickets started their evening concert. My grandparents taught me the meaning of effort and discipline, but also the love for the land. I was happy following in their footsteps, surrounded by the smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of cows being milked.
With my parents, in their restaurant, the atmosphere was different but equally vibrant. The smell of home-cooked food filled the alley I walked up every day after school. Plates flew out quickly, accompanied by laughter and conversations that filled the dining room. Although they were always busy, I still felt the warmth of home and affection. Every morning, I walked alone to school — there was no place for fear.
That freedom, that connection to the land, shaped who I am today. In this village, I learned to be brave, to find my own path, and, above all, to value freedom. Returning to raise my son and work on our project is a way to feel all that again.
Leaving the Village
When the time came to leave during my teenage years, I did so with a divided heart. On one side, there was the place that had been my home, with the freedom to wander along paths I knew by heart. On the other, a growing desire inside me — the need to see much more beyond.
As I grew older, I began to feel a kind of loneliness that had nothing to do with a lack of company, but rather with the absence of people who shared my interests. I longed to meet others who saw the world the way I did, who questioned, who explored.
I wanted to absorb everything: learn, study, soak in experiences that I felt didn’t reach the village. Traveling to different countries and living in the city gave me exactly what I was looking for. I studied, devoured books, discovered new ways of thinking and living. The world suddenly opened before me with all its layers, and I was ready to explore it. I worked in theaters, always surrounded by people, always feeling I was where I belonged.
And so 12 years passed, in that whirlwind…
The Change: From the City Back to the Village
Just over a decade ago — exactly 12 years — I decided to make the big leap: to leave city life behind and return to my village. At 31, I made one of those life-changing decisions, driven by a mix of intuition, fatigue, and a desire to live differently. If you’ve ever felt the city consuming you, where there’s always rush and never time, you might understand what brought me back.
The contrast with the city was obvious — not just the sound of birds instead of traffic — but also in how everything I saw as a “limitation” in my adolescence now seemed like a gift.
Living here doesn’t mean giving up services. We have everything we need: school, health center, physiotherapist, local shops, a telecenter, good internet connection, banks… But what really stands out is the community. In the city, despite the crowds, you often feel alone. Here, neighbors greet you in the street, and there’s a sense of belonging I never felt on the asphalt. This place isn’t perfect, but what it lacks I see not as a deficiency, but as an opportunity.
In a village, there’s always room to create, build, and contribute. I immersed myself in a project with a life of its own — one aimed at revitalizing rural life by creating shared housing in the heart of the village, where people can live sustainably and in contact with nature. This project is attracting people who love villages to move here and stay. Alongside our organic farm, we enjoy community gardens, a shared chicken coop, and the chance to take part in workshops on sustainable agriculture, self-sufficiency, and community living.
Here, every effort counts, every idea matters, and creativity can breathe life into the place. Being a mother here has also been a transformation. I’ve been able to offer my son something I had myself — a free childhood, in contact with nature, and within a real community that cares for him. But I’ve also realized the importance of continuing to be myself, of building my own spaces, because the village — with all its goodness — can also be traditional and sometimes rigid.
Being a feminist here isn’t easy, but it’s more necessary than ever. In places like this, it’s essential to make ourselves visible, to speak out, and to question roles that are often taken for granted. So yes, it was a radical change. Sometimes I remember the city: museums, concerts, theater, and the anonymity that lets you go unnoticed.
But the truth is, here I’ve found something much deeper. I’ve found time, roots, space to dream, a community that, although small, makes me feel part of something bigger — and above all, I’ve found a place where there’s still so much to do.
If you’ve ever thought about making this change, believe me: the village will give back what the city took from you — the ability to build your own place in the world. Here, nothing is handed to you — everything is built with effort, knowledge, enthusiasm, energy, community… and lots of love.