When I was in preschool in Colombia, I had a few friends from the U.S. and Europe. I remember thinking they were physically beautiful—more beautiful than I was. They looked like the people in the movies. To me, they seemed superior in some way.
As I grew older, I had a friend with Italian heritage, and I felt the same. Every time my parents had people over from other countries for work, I thought, Wow, they’re cooler. They’re better.
When I was fifteen, I left Colombia. My parents were doing a master’s degree in the U.S. and brought my sister and me with them. I was thrilled. It felt like it was finally my turn to live inside a movie. I imagined going to school where I would be different—exotic even—where everyone would think I was beautiful and want to be my friend.
Reality hit hard.
I wasn’t so different after all. More than 50% of the school population was Latin American—and rather than standing out, I felt invisible.
For a long time, I didn’t think of myself as an immigrant. I saw myself as a traveler. I thought everything was temporary. I also associated the word immigrant with something negative, and in my teenage ignorance, I hated looking “too Latina,” whatever that meant.
Later, in college, I heard constantly that Latinas are “hot.” Being objectified became a strange source of validation—as if being noticed that way was better than being invisible. It felt wrong to have my value as a person rely on something so shallow. Deep down, I knew I was much more than my appearance—that my intellect and my way of thinking mattered more.
I kept telling myself it was all temporary. I was just an international student.
It wasn’t until I went back to Colombia and entered the workforce that I began to truly see the beauty in being Colombian. I didn’t fit in at the ad agency where I worked, but I started to notice the things I deeply loved about my culture—our warmth, our sensitivity. I fell in love with the Spanish language, its sounds, its many ways of expression. I also became more aware of inequality, of the struggle so many face just to live a decent life. I left again… but always with the desire to return.
Fast forward to now—six years living in Australia, and getting the chance to visit my home country again recently. I am hyper-aware of who I am. And finally, I am hyper-proud of it too.
I know I may never have the standard of living back home that I have now. I know I will never fully fit in there again, because the world has changed me. But I have reconciled with being a Latina woman in my own way—fully a feminist, believing everyone deserves equal opportunity and fair treatment. I believe everyone is beautiful in their own way.
I am proud of being a migrant.
I speak three languages. My worldview is wide enough to hold multiple truths. I can understand different perspectives and see the value in each. I know hard work like only a migrant does. I am aware—and deeply grateful—for the privileges I’ve had.
And I can only dream and work for those who come after me—so they can have an even better life, greater opportunities, and more dignity than I have enjoyed. I can work so that when people think about Colombians, they acknowledge the good first.
I can only dream and work for equality.
For beauty.
For love.
Note to self: You were born a Colombian woman, in this age and time, for a reason. Your purpose is far beyond what you can imagine—trust it.
Unfolding 
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