She needed to be perfect. It wasn't like there was any other option. The firstborn child of the eldest Madrigal triplet could be nothing else.
Isabela was taught from a young age that she needed to behave like a proper lady. That she couldn't mess around in the forest because she couldn't get her delicate dresses torn or dirty. That she couldn't shout when she was excited or cry when she was hurt, because she had to be a role model to her younger cousin and sister. That really, pink and pale lavender were the colors that suited her rather than the bold blues and oranges that caught her eyes.
When she got her gift, she was ecstatic. She wasn't allowed to go to the forest anymore, but now she could bring the forest to her!
That hope was crushed quickly when her Abuela stamped down on anything that didn't blossom and scolded her for growing weeds. Because weren't flowers so much more beautiful? Knotted roots and spiky leaves didn't suit a girl as pretty as her, after all. Now that they were talking about it, wouldn't it be best if the petals of the flowers matched her clothes? Isn't it much nicer when the colors don't clash with each other?
One by one, the expectations slowly piled on her. Brush her hair smooth and silky. Stand up straight, slouching is unbecoming. Speak clearly, but not too loud. Move carefully with grace. Keep a smile on her face and her eyes bright. Take small bites when she eats. Stay still and don't fidget. Dance like this. Laugh like that.
And slowly she began to forget things. How did she like to wear her hair? What did her voice sound like when she was talking to someone naturally? When was the last time she ran somewhere? Did any of those things even matter? It wasn't like they had any influence on how she was expected to act.
So everyday she woke up and started being Isabela, the golden child of the Madrigal family. And when she went to bed at night, she stared at the flowers carpeting her ceiling and wondered what it would be like to not be Isabela. To be the girl she sometimes was in her dreams. The one that could run through the forest, laughing as loud and hard as she wanted, wearing bold colours, and wearing leaves and pollen in her hair.
That girl was as free as a bird, nameless and unbeholden to any obligation or expectation. She would wear bright red, vibrant orange, and neon yellow. She would wear forest greens, deep blues, and dark purples. She was chock full of colour and life, and nothing about her was ever pale or faded.
A spark of hope had reignited within her when Tío Bruno gave her a prophecy that her powers would grow stronger, and she would live the life of her dreams. That maybe someday she could be that girl who wasn't Isabela. Isabela, the girl so perfect and impeccable that even her cursed uncle could not taint her future with misfortune. Isabela, the name that seemed less and less like her and more like a mask that covered her true face.
Perhaps that spark was the only reason she hadn't shattered after her youngest sister's failed gift ceremony. All the pressure she had been under as the eldest Madrigal grandchild had suddenly doubled, if not tripled. Any small amount of leeway she had for deviating from her expectations was gone entirely. It was her duty to represent the strength of the miracle, and her weeks filled with ensuring there were constantly flowers blooming across the whole Encanto to remind people of that.
There was one time when she let herself crack. All of the feelings she had to repress and the parts of herself that she had to hide away had felt like they were boiling inside like one of her aunt's thunderstorms. The previous day had been rainy, and Isabela hadn't quite managed to avoid getting mud on her shoes when she went into town that day. Her mom simply mentioned that she should be careful she didn't track dirt through the house, and she had excused herself to her room and let herself cry.
