Colorism and the Experience of Morena Latinas

Growing up as a morena Latina often means receiving a message early in life: the lighter you are, the better you are treated. Whether it was hearing “no salgas mucho al sol, que te vas a poner más morena”, "estas prieta" or watching how light-skinned family members were praised for their güerita complexion, these moments left deep emotional imprints. These weren’t just passing comments, they were part of a larger system of colorism that many of us internalized before we even understood it had a name.

Colorism, a form of discrimination that privileges lighter skin over darker skin within communities of color, is deeply rooted in colonial histories and white supremacy. In Latinx communities, this often shows up in subtle and not-so-subtle ways—from the novelas that center güeras as romantic leads, to the relatives who suggest certain colors don’t “look good” on our darker skin. It teaches us, consciously or not, to associate proximity to whiteness with worth, beauty, and even success.

As a therapist and a morena Latina myself, I see how colorism impacts not just self-esteem, but our relationships, our sense of safety, and even the way we navigate our professions or parent our children. It can show up as perfectionism, people-pleasing, or a deep-rooted fear of being “too visible” or “not enough.” Many morenas learn early on to shrink themselves—to stay out of the sun, to avoid bold colors, to work harder to be accepted. These survival strategies make sense in a world that punishes those who don't fit its narrow beauty ideals.

Therapy can be a space to unpack this. It’s where we explore how childhood experiences—like being too dark was an issue or being told to straighten our hair—shape the way we move through the world. We begin to question: Who benefits from me hating my skin? What would it mean to reclaim joy in the body and color I was born in? How do I begin to see myself with the tenderness I give others?

Healing from colorism doesn’t happen overnight. It’s layered. It’s grieving what we didn’t get—affirmation, celebration, belonging. It’s also unlearning the beliefs that taught us to hide, to overcompensate, or to feel shame. And it’s slowly rebuilding a relationship with ourselves that’s rooted in truth, not hierarchy.

If you’re a morena reading this and you’re still unlearning the messages you received, you’re not alone. You don’t need to earn your worth, prove your beauty, or justify your brilliance. It has always been there, even if the world tried to convince you otherwise.