Elsa y Elmar on her Latin GRAMMY nomination, strength, vulnerability, and trusting her intuition

I was with my mother going to the gym, and I wasn't aware that nominations had come up, because I had given up. To be honest, I had given up on that quest for pop validation for Palacio. It felt like the album was an outsider. Even though I had done big shows and things were happening on the fan side, the industry side of Palacio felt like I didn't know where that album belonged.

I had no idea nominations were coming out. I started getting messages and was like, "What are you talking about?" They sent the text from the Grammys. I never believe those things; I need proof. They sent the text, and it was just me screaming, because it really was unexpected, really, really unexpected.

She works with me. She's my business manager—she handles all the finances, all the administration of Elsa y Elmar. So it was beautiful because it wasn't only a mom, but a co-worker. She has cried with me during these years. She has suffered with me because it's been a rough year figuring stuff out. So it was more of a mom-daughter celebration, a co-worker's celebration. It really did give us a moment of, we belong.

​Oh, my God, yes. Palacio was independent. At this point in my career, I'm happy to belong to the industry and be part of it. I’m just trying to build new ways of doing it, a bit fairer on both sides. I don’t hate the industry or labels; I just fight for what’s fair.

Being independent is hard. You feel lonely sometimes, like you just need someone to click a button and make it easier. Sometimes I feel, "I'm done, please someone help me." This album felt the weight of my own decisions, which I take, and I’m okay with having taken them. But it taught me that you need people around and an ecosystem to work in.

But when I see that album nominated in a pop category— because I was like, okay, it’s an alternative album, whatever. But when it's taken as a pop album, I'm like "aw, thank god." I feel like the industry saw it. The Grammys are the industry, taking a moment to say, "Good job, honey, we see you." It felt like a pat on the back.

It’s raw intuition and my mom’s teachings. She’s been a businesswoman all her life. Seeing her fight for what’s fair shaped me. I grew up seeing her fight for what she deserved. She isn’t a feminist or aware of feminism; she’s a hustler and a worker. I remember her saying things like, "These other managers get twice as much money as I get, and I earn the same. That sucks." I was 12, absorbing it, not realizing it was about feminism or gender, just fairness. I never thought I’d be part of the industry. I was ready to be a pop star who shut up and did what she was told—but I’m not.

I don’t have an answer; it just is. When I’ve worked with big or medium teams, now with a tiny team of four or five, it’s always clear there’s space for my intuition, my gut feelings, my vision, my need for rest. At the beginning of my career, I struggled a lot with mental health whenever I tried to chase and conform. I did suffer a lot of mental health struggles.

So I think I learned that very early on, limits have to be set, because if they're not set, then there's not gonna be work, there's not gonna be music. I'm just gonna be there sick, anxious, and feeling bad. So it's like, if I want to keep working, Elsa y Elmar have to do it that way.

Strength looks like a lot of crying, a lot of ups and downs in a good way. Understanding, surrendering. My spiritual world has strengthened. I had a sense of it before, but now I’m convinced there’s a path. If we act with love, respect, and care toward coworkers, things start taking shape. I surrender to God. I would prefer my song to go viral, to win, but I leave it to God. I find strength in surrendering and crying when things don’t go my way. It’s liberating.

It’s the same: trusting God, letting it be a channel, keeping it impulsive and raw. Lately, I’ve been connecting with writing on my own, which is how I started. Then, of course, you get to meet new collaborators and you start always writing with them, blah, blah, blah. Now I'm thinking I want to go back to my room, and take a month to finish a song, and not be in a studio, just, you know, waiting for it to be done. There's no rush. So, yeah, I just keep it very mystical, to be honest.

I like to surf with whatever music comes out of me and whatever words come out of me, but I really try not to think it's such a big deal. You know, because I believe magic is killed whenever you think, "Oh, what I'm saying is very deep." I always try to kill that thought.

The most rewarding thing is hearing people perceive my music as a place of healing. It’s not heartbreak songs. My music is often misunderstood—it’s not sad music at all. It helps the process of healing. So it's beautiful whenever I go to my shows and I see enjoyment, and I see tears of joy. It's tears of nostalgia. It's the tears of letting go. You know, there's a lot of crying in my shows, but it's not heartbreak. It's not an end. I just love being part of people's lives.

I would tell her it will pass. Please be sure of that. It will pass. When you’re in a mental health crisis, it feels like it will never pass. That’s all she needed to know; it was a process to know what I know now. I wouldn’t have understood if someone told me, "Just let go, let God guide you." Even now, I have no clue what will happen with my career. I’m figuring it out and letting it be. I have no idea, but I enjoy that uncertainty.