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I grew up in a big sports family. As Puerto Ricans in a small Florida town in the 1990s, it helped us survive the South. My brothers and I weren’t just fans; we were athletes. Even as the youngest and the only girl, I was in the middle of all the family basketball, soccer, and baseball games — and I was often the best player. 

But despite my skill, I always received the same messages: I was wasting my time, sports wasn’t feminine, and this interest was just a phase I’d outgrow before settling into someone else’s expectations. Those comments were infuriating. I saw the surge of excitement around the 1995 UConn Huskies, led by Cuban-American Hall of Famer Rebecca Lobo, and the 1997 WNBA’s launch. But eventually, I also saw how the league suffered a sharp decline in investment and fan interest. With limited domestic opportunities and low pay, many players were forced to continue their careers overseas, splitting their time and their energy across continents. It felt like confirmation of one of my worst fears: that my family was right — this was a total waste of my time.

So when I was recruited to play Division III basketball, I walked away — not because I didn’t love the game but because all the times I was told that women don’t belong in sports made it impossible for me to envision a future as an athlete. 

As my gender journey has shifted — now living as a trans man — my love for women’s sports hasn’t wavered. And nearly two decades later, it feels like the tide is turning. Women’s sports are shaping the national sports conversation. The 2024 NCAA Women’s Championship drew more than 18 million viewers — surpassing the men’s final. And this time, a diverse new generation is leading: Colombian-Puerto Rican Indiana Fever rookie Celeste Taylor, one of just six Latinas on WNBA rosters, is defending with quiet force and big ambitions. Notre Dame’s breakout guard, Puerto Rican Hannah Hidalgo, is tenaciously owning the ACC and has even stirred comparisons to the WNBA’s all-time leading scorer, Argentine Diana Taurasi. Meanwhile, Kamilla Cardoso, a Brazilian powerhouse with the Chicago Sky, is asserting herself in the paint after two national titles at South Carolina. 

This isn’t a fluke — it’s a shift. And while major sports media want to continue to focus debates on Caitlin Clark and Angel Reese and their fandom rival, behind that spotlight, Latina athletes are reshaping the future. They’ve been here. They’re raising the game. And they’re unapologetically claiming their space.

That’s why the waiver of Esmery Martínez by the New York Liberty felt especially disheartening. Just as it seemed that women of color were finally receiving meaningful investment, this decision underscored the systemic precarity that still defines the WNBA for so many. Martínez, a Dominican-American forward with international experience, was cut by the Liberty for the second year in a row, despite strong performances during training camp and an ever-growing fanbase in New York. 

She wasn’t the only one. Kaitlyn Chen, the first Taiwanese-American player ever drafted into the league, was selected 30th overall by the Golden State Valkyries and quickly became a fan favorite — her jersey even ranked among the team’s top sellers — but she was still waived before the season started. The decision sparked criticism that the team had leveraged Chen’s marketability without offering a genuine chance to earn a roster spot. Now, in a turn of events, the Valkyries have re-signed Chen, just weeks after her initial release. 

Still, these waivers reveal a hard truth: Visibility doesn’t equal stability, especially when institutions profit from representation without committing to equity. These aren’t isolated incidents. They’re part of a larger pattern where women of color are celebrated as symbols but denied the sustained investment needed to succeed. It speaks to a deeper structural failure in professional women’s sports: the ongoing neglect of long-term development and support for women athletes of color.

Such is the criticism surrounding the Chicago Sky’s management. At the center of the Sky fallout is the underdevelopment of young stars like Cardoso, whose story began in Montes Claros, Brazil, and who represents a new generation of international Latina athletes navigating a U.S. sports system that often overlooks their unique needs and cultural identities. Cardoso’s potential is undeniable. Standing 6’7″, she dominated at the collegiate level, winning an NCAA championship with South Carolina in 2024. Yet since joining the WNBA, she has seen limited playtime, raising questions about the Sky’s developmental strategy. Cardoso often seems like an afterthought in the team’s rotation — a glaring contradiction in a league that claims to be invested in growing the game. 

Her situation is a microcosm of a broader issue: Latina athletes, whether born in the U.S. or internationally, are frequently celebrated for their potential but rarely given the long-term support and resources needed to thrive at the professional level. Cardoso’s journey is evidence that talent alone isn’t enough. Without intentional investment from coaching staff, media, and league leadership, too many Latina athletes remain underdeveloped, under-promoted, and undervalued.

But the lack of investment in Latina athletes isn’t just a WNBA issue. It’s a systemic failure across sports. Take boxing superstar Amanda Serrano. The Brooklyn-born Puerto Rican is arguably one of the greatest boxers alive. Serrano has held world titles in seven weight classes. And yet, despite her record, she spent years waiting for a headline fight within the male-dominated world of professional boxing. That opportunity finally came in 2022 — not through legacy sports networks, but through Jake Paul, a YouTuber-turned-boxer who promoted her under his brand Most Valuable Promotions. While the partnership undeniably boosted Serrano’s visibility, it also came at a cost. Paul is among the wave of wealthy Americans exploiting Act 60, a tax loophole fueling the gentrification crisis in Puerto Rico. So while Serrano rises, the terms of her success remain entangled in the same colonial logic that displaces the very communities she represents. It raises a hard, necessary question: Why did one of the most-decorated athletes need a white male co-sign to be seen, paid, and valued? 

Sports media is another culprit. When the Orlando Pride won the 2024 NWSL Cup, led by Brazilian legend Marta Vieira da Silva, national sports media coverage was nearly nonexistent. I remember receiving a notification on my phone about the win. I rushed to turn on my TV, thinking I would see a special segment on the win, but I found virtually nothing on major sports network shows. Aside from a brief ESPN segment, most of the celebration lived in local Central Florida news outlets, despite Marta finally lifting a major domestic trophy. For a player of her stature — a six-time FIFA World Player of the Year — it was remarkable silence. 

Media visibility builds brands, secures endorsements, and cements legacies. When Latina athletes are sidelined, the message is clear: their excellence is still treated as exceptional, not foundational. And the cost is real. Young fans lose the chance to see themselves reflected — not as tokens but as centerpieces. Visibility can’t be a seasonal gesture or a viral exception; it must be built into the structure. Because when representation isn’t matched with resources, it becomes decoration, not transformation. 

In the ’80s and ’90s, U.S. sports culture wasn’t concerned with representing the full mosaic of its players or fans. It was about rallying around a myth of national unity. To play and support the game was, in many ways, to assimilate. Ethnic identity was something that was left at the locker room door or seasonally celebrated. As a kid, I remember quietly wondering if Lobo or Taurasi were Latinas like me, based only on their last names. Their heritage wasn’t an elevated focus of their story. That absence shaped a generation of us — athletes and fans alike — who learned to see ourselves only partially reflected, especially when it comes to the main stage of sports. 

Now, as women’s sports enter what many are calling a golden age, we have a chance to do it differently. Thankfully, the next generation is taking control of their narratives — securing NIL deals, building visibility on TikTok and Instagram, and telling their stories on their own terms. Take Notre Dame standout  Hidalgo, who is not only dominating the ACC but is also quietly building a brand — with deals from Red Bull, Topps, and Aloft South Bend — all while embracing her Puerto Rican roots and sharing that journey with her followers. There’s also Lou Lopez Sénéchal, the first Mexican-born player in the WNBA, who said, “This is an opportunity to open doors for other players and hopefully have an impact and inspire more young people from Mexico.” Meanwhile, Puerto Rican center Isalys Quiñones, who is newly entering the spotlight, uses her social channels to offer compelling glimpses into her pro journey and culture. 

These women are doing more than scoring; they’re becoming cultural catalysts. Across courts and timelines, they’re proving that Latina athletes are not just part of the game — they’re changing it. Still, the burden shouldn’t fall on rookies to carry the league’s conscience. The media must invest. Teams must develop. Fans must show up. Equity is not a favor; it’s the future. 

That’s what platforms like Drafted understand. Founded by Karina Martinez and Jennifer Yepez-Blundell in 2023, the culture-driven media brand emerged from the absence of Latina representation and transformed that void into a movement. What began as a space to uplift fan stories has become a powerful ecosystem: editorial coverage, experiential events, and real-time amplification of Latina athletes, coaches, and sports professionals. It fills the gaps where mainstream media falls short, where Latine Heritage Month hype rarely translates into contract security, injury support, or career longevity. And now, with the recent announcement of an all-women’s sports network co-founded by Whoopi Goldberg, the landscape is shifting further. That venture — backed by both cultural and financial capital — signals that the demand for women’s sports isn’t niche; it’s necessary. Together, projects like Drafted and Goldberg’s network are not just covering women’s sports, they’re rebuilding the architecture of who gets to be seen, celebrated, and sustained.

The stakes are real. Latina athletes, like all women athletes of color, face the compounded harm of shallow narratives, unstable rosters, and chronically underfunded futures. It’s about pay and it’s also about narrative justice, infrastructure, commitment, and a cultural recalibration. So imagine with me a world where investment in women’s sports is rooted not in trend but in trust. Where fans treat women’s games not as novelties but as a culture of celebration. A culture where visibility isn’t seasonal and Latina athletes aren’t firsts or exceptions but foundations. We don’t need to wait for that world to arrive. We can build it now.

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