My story is not particularly impactful or unique, but it might, in some ways, feel comforting for those with similar hardships.

As I've shared with many of you, I am originally from the Dominican Republic. I spent my early years living a soft lifestyle, enjoying kid things, working in our self funded animal rescue endeavors and donating to less fortunate families. We were humble, and I took immense pride in our generosity.

But life took an unexpected turn when my family lost our only source of income. After a period of struggle, my mother recognized she would need to make a difficult transition. Like so many immigrant parents before her, she took a leap of faith to pursue the American dream, hoping to secure a brighter future for her children.

Unlike my mother and sister, I wasn’t born in the United States. This led to a difficult decision for my mom, she arranged for me to stay with a family member for a few years, ensuring that my basic needs were met—food, finances, and shelter. While I don’t feel comfortable going in depth about the struggles I endured during this time period, I will say this: I stared dehumanization in the face, and I didn’t break.

Eventually, my mother and grandmother became aware of my situation. My grandmother flew back home and decided to care for me permanently, while my mom continued juggling three jobs and caring for my baby sister, her eldest sister, and my cousin/brother, whom many of you have met.

My grandma, Inocencia, which means “Innocence” was as close to love as you could get. She would braid my hair each night before bed, wake me up to “Estas son las Mañanitas,” and always greeted me with a fresh cup of tea every single morning. 

My grandmother was a beacon of love in my story, she was also slowly becoming a memory. To put it lightly, she had pancreatic cancer, she didn't know it at the time, but she would soon. Each night while braiding my hair, and each morning while preparing my tea her body in a sense was deteriorating. Let’s emphasize this: even with pancreatic cancer, she still braided my hair and made my tea every single day.

After some time, her health worsened, and she was flown to America for a more accurate diagnosis, which confirmed the cancer. You may wonder: when did I find out she was sick? The day she passed away. Why didn’t she tell me sooner? I think she believed she had more time. Was I angry? Strangely, I wasn’t. I knew I was loved. I was told that during her hospitalization, my name was used as an anchor, a source of comfort amidst the pain to help her take her medicine and, in the end, to put her at ease while she passed. I will always carry that love with me.

Ironically, it was shortly after her passing that I was granted citizenship and found myself in America, beginning the journey towards claiming my “First Born Immigrant” title.

The first year was the hardest. My mother worked three jobs. My cousin and younger sister didn’t speak Spanish, and I didn’t know a word of English, so I felt alone. School was isolating, I didn't have any friends. I faced racism from teachers and relentless bullying from classmates. There were no English language learning programs, and the one other Spanish-speaking girl was explicitly prohibited by teachers from helping me. Life in this foreign place often felt more like punishment than opportunity.

Fueled by determination (and maybe a little pettiness), I immersed myself in English. I switched all my favorite shows and movies to English with Spanish subtitles and became self-taught within nine months.  By the end of two years, I had written an essay about my journey as an immigrant in America, an essay published in the library of congress today. No I won’t share a title or more details, because people online can be a little strange, and I value privacy. But this achievement felt empowering. And if you’re wondering whatever happened to those teachers, let's just say my mother was an intimidating unhinged force. They quickly got in line.

Through most of my teenage years, my mother continued juggling three jobs while I managed school, worked to help pay the bills, took care of household chores and supported my sister with schooling and her learning disability. I will admit this journey felt difficult, there were days I had to pick my mother off the floor while she cried and told her she was enough, there were days I felt like I may not be enough. My mother, despite her limited time, supported me as best as she could, but much of my journey was self-driven. I paid for the furniture in our apartment, my education, my first car, and my first home, all on my own.

Over time, many people have had strong opinions about my story, claiming I should have done less, or that I was overparentified but the truth is, this is the reality of being a first born immigrant child from a single parent household. We don’t have the privilege to do something different. I was molded into a problem solver, a communicator, a therapist, a daughter, a parent, an employee, a great student, a scholar and a great athlete.

This isn’t a sad story about an unloved girl —I’ve experienced immense love throughout my life from my parents, siblings, bestfriends (who became siblings), grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, and partners. If you could learn anything from my story, it is that difficult things can happen to anyone. And that immense love can help you overcome immense challenges. Some may view my story as sad but I viewed it as a privilege. A Privilege to learn empathy, independence, love, dedication and above all how to be a safe space for the people I love most. My experience is the reason I can easily connect and empathize with so many of you and why I can love strangers so easily and deeply. It is the best part of myself.

I will end this little story by highlighting my oldest dream “One day I will re-open our animal shelter, I will name it The Inocencia Foundation, in memory of you, I will make enough to make a difference”. My only hope in life is to continue spreading a little love everywhere I go. In a world of bystanders I want to be a difference, even if it's small and I hope I can encourage others to do the same.

Thank you, Catalixia