This entry is part of the inaugural My Miami Migration Short Essay Contest. The program, created by Cátedra Vargas Llosa, was designed to engage young people in South Florida in the art of writing while reflecting on their migration experiences.
“Mom, the light went out again.” For millions in Venezuela, this phrase is a routine part of life, a
reminder of flickering hope in a country burdened by instability. But for me, it symbolizes the
tension between two worlds I’ve navigated my entire life—one illuminated by privilege, the
other shrouded in struggle.
Born into a Venezuelan immigrant family, my story begins in the vibrant, sun-soaked streets of Puerto Rico. Yet, life unraveled with the 2008 financial crisis. My family lost everything. We packed our lives into suitcases and moved to Miami, clinging to the hope of stability as my older brother fought to stay alive. His fragile body was damaged by eosinophilic esophagitis, and at school, it made him a target. Kids shoved him into lockers and punched his delicate stomach. Their laughter echoed in the hallways, mocking his pain. At six years old, I made a choice: I would protect him. I became his shield. I grew up overnight. No one touched him again.
At home, the air was thick with the aroma of arepas and the sounds of “Gaita” playing. My mother, an
immigrant and single parent, carried the weight of two worlds on her back. She was exiled from her family for breaking an arranged marriage and fled to the U.S.to build a life from nothing. Her hands—once adorned with delicate jewelry in her youth—were calloused from years of hard work. Yet, her spirit was unbroken. She reminded me daily that sacrifice was the price of freedom and that strength was born from struggle.
In Miami, I learned to straddle two worlds. At school, I navigated the sharp-edged maze of American culture. At home, I held tightly to our Venezuelan traditions. I danced to bachata with my grandma while mastering the English alphabet, switching between languages and balancing precariously between two cultures became my new life. The tension was exhausting but transformative. It taught me the power of adaptability and the beauty of connection.
As a first-generation Latina aspiring to a medical career, my identity is inseparable from my ambition. My mother’s sacrifices carved a path for me to dream beyond survival. She showed me that it’s not enough to endure; you must also rise. Her journey from ostracization to resilience has fueled my belief in second chances and the power of transformation.
Navigating my dual identity has shown me the power of growth through adversity. Whether it’s protecting my brother, adapting to new environments, or honoring my mother’s journey, I have learned to embrace challenges as opportunities to grow. As I pursue a career in medicine, I aim to extend this mindset, helping others not only heal but also transform their lives. My immigration story is not just about resilience; it’s about hope, second chances, and the unwavering belief that we can always dare to grow.
Even though I didn’t grow up in Venezuela, it lives in me. It’s in the crackling sound of arepas on the stove, the whispered prayers of my family during hard times, and the grit I carry in every step forward. Since I was 11, I’ve worked with the “I Love Venezuela Foundation,” providing aid to families who face challenges I’ve only glimpsed. These experiences have been my anchor, reminding me that fulfillment lies in lifting others.
My story is one of duality—of light and shadow, struggle and triumph. I will foster communities that celebrate resilience, bridging cultural divides and offering hope to those who need it most.
Because the lights may go out, but the spirit never dims.