Dirty Thirty Blog

I was born in Nayarit, Mexico.

The truth is, I know very little about the place where I was born. I don’t remember its streets, its sounds, or its traditions. My parents made the decision to leave everything behind and cross the border so my siblings and I could have opportunities they never had. They sacrificed their home, their families, and their own dreams in pursuit of what people call the American Dream.

For a while, it felt like that dream might actually be possible.

Then, when I was a teenager, everything changed.

At an age when most kids were worried about prom, football games, and where they wanted to go to college, my life became about survival. The dream my parents had chased seemed to disappear overnight. Looking back now, I realize I was too young to understand what was happening or how deeply it would impact the rest of my life. My parents moved back to Mexico when i was 16 years old.

I was a straight-A student.

I loved school. I was involved in cheerleading and spent more time focused on grades, activities, and my future than I did trying to fit in socially. I had big dreams. My biggest dream was to become a pediatrician. I’ve always loved children and wanted a career where I could make a difference in their lives.

But when I looked for guidance, there wasn’t much to be found.

The counselors who were supposed to help students navigate college, scholarships, and career paths couldn’t tell me how to get where I wanted to go. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they didn’t care. What I knew was that I left those conversations feeling completely alone.

And when you’re young, undocumented, and trying to figure out your future, being alone is terrifying.

While other teenagers were planning their futures, I was trying to survive mine.

I didn’t get the chance to be a teenager.

I became an adult overnight.

I was suddenly responsible for things a child should never have to carry. I worried about work, bills, and stability. I worried about my family. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the child and became the parent. I carried responsibilities that didn’t belong to me because there was nobody else to carry them. As soon as i could work i started supporting my parents financially.

how? well something happened that changed the course of my life.

Obama made DACA possible and gave people like me an opportunity to work legally and begin building a future. It wasn’t a solution to everything, but it was a lifeline.

So I worked.

I worked because I needed to survive. I worked because I wanted more for myself. I worked because I wanted to help my family. But if I’m being honest, I also worked because I felt like I had something to prove.

The truth is, when you grow up feeling uncertain, invisible, or unwanted, achievement becomes more than achievement. It becomes validation.

Every promotion.

Every award.

Every accomplishment.

Every title.

They become pieces of evidence in a case you’re constantly presenting to the world.

“See? I deserve to be here.”

But no amount of success fills the emptiness that comes from feeling like you don’t belong.

That feeling followed me into adulthood.

It followed me into meetings, offices, and professional spaces where I often looked around and realized very few people shared my experiences.

Sometimes nobody said anything at all.

Sometimes they did.

Sometimes it showed up in assumptions.

Sometimes it showed up in lowered expectations.

Sometimes it showed up in having to work twice as hard to earn the same level of confidence and trust.

Sometimes it showed up in ways that seemed small to everyone else, but felt enormous to me.

The interview I never got, even though I knew I deserved one.

The constant question:

“Where are you from?”

And after answering, the follow-up question:

“No, where are you really from?”

Sometimes it came disguised as a compliment.

“Wow, your skin tone is so unique.”

“You’re so tan. Where did you vacation?”

Well, Karen, I didn’t vacation. I’m Mexican. I’m full of melanin. Sometimes all it takes is stepping outside for a few minutes before I catch a tan.

If you’ve never had to explain that, you’re fortunate.

For many of us, these moments aren’t isolated incidents. They’re reminders that we’re often viewed as “different” before we’re viewed as human.

I’ve been called names I will never forget.

Words that were meant to reduce me to a stereotype.

Words that made me feel like “wetback” had been tattooed across my forehead before I ever opened my mouth.

I’ve walked into stores and immediately felt eyes following me.

The message was never said out loud, but it was understood:

“You don’t look like the people we expect to shop here.”

Those experiences stay with you.

Not because they happen once.

Because they happen again and again and again.

The feeling followed me into higher education, too.

I didn’t attend a fancy university with a name that impressed people. I attended the schools that were available to me, the schools that fit my circumstances, the schools that allowed me to keep moving forward.

And yet I learned quickly that people often judge the value of your education before they ever understand your journey.

I spent years feeling like I had to overcompensate.

For the opportunities I didn’t have.

For the doors that weren’t open to me.

For the fact that my grammar isn’t perfect.

For the fact that I didn’t grow up with the same resources, networks, guidance, or roadmap that others seemed to inherit naturally.

Together, they create a lifetime of questioning whether you belong in spaces you’ve worked incredibly hard to enter.

And yes, let’s talk about something people often avoid.

I’m Mexican.

I’m also brown.

If you think that doesn’t affect how people move through this world, I encourage you to look a little closer.

Because it matters.

It matters when people mispronounce your name and never bother to learn it.

It matters when people assume your role before they know your title.

It matters when you’re carrying experiences that nobody else in the room understands.

And it matters when you’ve spent your entire life feeling like you need to prove you belong somewhere you’ve already earned a seat at.

Today, on paper, I should feel accomplished.

I’ve built a career.

I’ve overcome obstacles that once felt impossible.

I’ve achieved things that the younger version of me could only dream about.

Yet there are still moments when that familiar feeling creeps in.

The feeling of being different.

The feeling of being out of place.

The feeling of wondering whether people see my accomplishments before they see my ethnicity, my background, or the assumptions they’ve attached to me.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized something important.

Belonging isn’t something other people give you.

No promotion can give it to you.

No degree can give it to you.

No title can give it to you.

The day you stop asking for permission to exist is the day you begin to belong.

I belong in every room I’ve worked hard to enter.

My story belongs.

My experiences belong.

My voice belongs.

And maybe the reason I share this is because somewhere there is a young girl who feels exactly the way I once did. A girl who feels forgotten. A girl who feels behind. A girl who feels like everyone else received a roadmap except her.

I want her to know something I didn’t learn until much later:

You do not have to earn your humanity.

You do not have to justify your existence.

You do not have to spend your life proving your worth.

You were worthy before the promotion.

You were worthy before the degree.

You were worthy before the title.

The truth is, there are still days when I walk into a room and wonder if I belong there. There are days i look around the room and i am the only colored person in the room and it intimidates me.

There are still moments when that little girl inside me remembers what it felt like to be scared, undocumented, uncertain, and completely alone.

But now I know something she didn’t.

The things that once made me feel different are the very things that made me resilient.

The obstacles that were meant to limit me taught me how to adapt.

The experiences that made me question my place in the world became the foundation of who I am.

I am not successful despite my story.

I am successful because of it.

And if you’ve ever felt like you didn’t belong, I hope you know this:

Sometimes the people who feel the most out of place are the very people who end up changing the room.

❤️