I won't become someone I don't recognize to accept myself again
Tatiana Farkas, hija del filántropo chileno Leonardo Farkas, ha compartido públicamente las consecuencias psicológicas y físicas de un episodio de acoso ocurrido meses atrás, revelando cómo el trauma se inscribe en el cuerpo antes de encontrar palabras. Su testimonio —marcado por la pérdida de cabello, pesadillas y un tartamudeo inesperado— no es solo una confesión personal, sino una invitación colectiva a reconocer que sanar lleva tiempo y que ese tiempo le pertenece a quien lo vive. En una cultura que exige resiliencia inmediata, su voz propone algo más honesto: seguir siendo una misma, incluso con una sombra al lado.
- El acoso que sufrió Farkas no terminó con el incidente: meses después, su cuerpo seguía hablando a través de síntomas que ella no había sabido leer como señales de alarma.
- La brecha entre creer que se está bien y descubrir que no lo está —a través de un tartamudeo o de lágrimas que llegan sin aviso— expone la distancia que puede existir entre la mente consciente y el sistema nervioso.
- Farkas eligió Instagram como espacio para nombrar lo innombrable: la caída del cabello, las pesadillas, el colapso emocional, rompiendo el silencio que suele rodear las secuelas visibles del trauma.
- Frente a la presión social de recuperarse rápido, ella reivindica el derecho a tomarse el tiempo propio y a no transformarse en otra persona como condición para sanar.
- Su relato está aterrizando como un testimonio que amplía la conversación sobre salud mental y acoso en comunidades digitales, ofreciendo a otros el permiso de reconocer su propio dolor.
Tatiana Farkas, hija del filántropo chileno Leonardo Farkas, recurrió a sus historias de Instagram esta semana para hablar con franqueza sobre el impacto psicológico de un episodio de acoso ocurrido hace varios meses. Lo que comenzó como un reconocimiento de su propio colapso emocional se convirtió en un relato detallado de cómo el trauma transforma el cuerpo y la mente de maneras que no siempre son visibles de inmediato.
Farkas describió síntomas físicos concretos: pérdida de cabello, sudoración, pesadillas que interrumpían su sueño. Pero fueron las señales que emergieron en la vida cotidiana las que más la perturbaron: un tartamudeo al hablar con otras personas, lágrimas que llegaban sin razón aparente en cualquier momento del día. Ella creía estar manejando la situación, explicó, hasta que su propio cuerpo le demostró lo contrario.
En su reflexión, Farkas fue más allá de su experiencia personal para hablar sobre el proceso de sanar. Tomarse tiempo para reajustarse al mundo después de haber vivido violencia no es debilidad, escribió, sino algo completamente normal. En una cultura que suele exigir una recuperación rápida y visible, su postura resulta significativa: el ritmo de la sanación le pertenece a quien sana, no a las expectativas externas.
También habló del poder del subconsciente, no como algo que la victimizaba, sino como una fuente de fortaleza a la que podía acudir. Este reencuadre —pasar del sufrimiento pasivo al compromiso activo con su propia resiliencia— parece ser el eje de cómo está atravesando este período.
Finalmente, Farkas fue clara en algo fundamental: no va a convertirse en alguien irreconocible para sí misma como forma de hacer las paces con lo ocurrido. Hay una sombra que la acompaña, reconoció, pero ella sigue siendo ella. Al nombrar públicamente el tartamudeo, las lágrimas, la caída del cabello y las pesadillas, ofrece a otros el permiso de hacer lo mismo.
Tatiana Farkas, the daughter of Chilean philanthropist Leonardo Farkas, opened up on Instagram this week about the lingering psychological toll of a harassment incident that occurred several months ago. What began as a recognition of emotional collapse has become a detailed account of how trauma reshapes the body and mind in ways both visible and hidden.
In a series of Instagram stories, Farkas described the physical manifestations of her distress with unflinching specificity. Hair loss. Sweating. Nightmares that interrupted her sleep. But the symptoms that troubled her most were the ones that emerged in ordinary social interaction—a stammer when speaking to people, tears arriving without warning at random moments throughout the day. She had believed herself to be managing, she explained, until her body and voice told a different story.
What strikes in her account is the gap between what she thought she was experiencing and what was actually happening. The mind can convince itself that a traumatic event has been processed, filed away, moved past. The nervous system knows better. Farkas described this disconnect plainly: she thought she was fine until she wasn't, until the evidence became impossible to ignore.
Her reflection extended beyond her own experience to a broader point about healing itself. Taking time to readjust to the world after violence, she wrote, is not weakness or indulgence—it is normal. The statement carries weight in a culture that often pressures people to move forward quickly, to demonstrate resilience by returning to baseline as soon as possible. Farkas suggested instead that the timeline for recovery belongs to the person recovering, not to external expectations.
She also spoke about the power of the subconscious mind, framing it not as something that had victimized her but as a source of strength she could access. Rather than feeling helpless in the face of what her own mind and body were doing, she chose to see that power as something to connect with, to draw from. This reframing—from passive suffering to active engagement with her own resilience—appears central to how she is moving through this.
Perhaps most importantly, Farkas made clear that she will not become someone unrecognizable to herself in order to heal. She will not erase or fundamentally alter who she is as a way of making peace with what happened. There is a shadow walking with her now, she acknowledged, but she is still alive, still herself. The harassment and its aftermath have not rewritten her identity, even as they have changed her experience of the world.
Her willingness to name these things publicly—the hair loss, the tears, the stammer, the nightmares—contributes to a conversation that remains difficult in many spaces. Trauma does not announce itself neatly. It arrives in the body before it arrives in language. By speaking about it directly, Farkas has offered others permission to do the same.
Notable Quotes
I thought I was fine, but then I started stammering when speaking to people, crying at random moments throughout the day— Tatiana Farkas
Taking time to readjust to the world after violence is very normal— Tatiana Farkas
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
When you say you thought you were fine but then started stammering, what was that moment like? When did you realize something was wrong?
It wasn't a single moment. It was more like waking up to something that had been happening all along. You can tell yourself a story about being okay, and then your body interrupts that story. The stammer came when I was just trying to have normal conversations. That's when I understood that fine and actually fine are not the same thing.
The physical symptoms—hair loss, sweating, nightmares—those are real medical responses to trauma, aren't they? Not just in your head?
Exactly. And I think that's important to say out loud. People sometimes treat psychological trauma as if it's separate from the body, but it's not. Your nervous system doesn't distinguish between different kinds of threat. It responds. The hair loss was real. The nightmares were real. They were my body's way of processing something my mind hadn't fully acknowledged yet.
You mentioned choosing to connect with your subconscious strength rather than feeling helpless. How do you actually do that? What does that practice look like?
It's about shifting from victim to witness, I think. Instead of being something that happens to you, you become someone observing what's happening and asking what it means. It's not about denying the pain. It's about not letting the pain be the only story.
And the decision not to change who you fundamentally are—was that hard to hold onto?
Yes. There's pressure, internal and external, to become smaller, quieter, different after something like this. To prove you've learned a lesson or become more cautious. But that felt like letting the harassment win twice. I wanted to stay myself, even if myself now includes a shadow.
What do you hope people understand about healing from something like this?
That it's not linear. That taking time is not the same as being stuck. That your body knows things your mind hasn't caught up to yet. And that you don't have to become unrecognizable to yourself to move forward.