There is an inherent strength in being an immigrant. You develop a capacity to belong anywhere because you’ve been told you belong nowhere. You learn to construct a life not because you were invited, but because you refused to fade away.
In August 2004, at the age of 13, I traveled with my grandmother from Mexico City to Nogales, Sonora, a border town, on my way to join my family in Georgia. My grandmother did not cross with me; her purpose was to get me safely to the border and ensure I was in the care of the “coyote” who would guide me the rest of the way.
I had previously heard of coyotes, individuals who assist undocumented immigrants in crossing the U.S. border. However, as a teenager, I imagined literal coyotes—sly, swift, and occasionally dangerous. My aunt and grandmother spoke of them in hushed tones, as if fearing they might appear.
We spent two days in a hotel, during which I had to learn and commit to memory a single phrase: “Yes, I am a U.S. citizen.” At that time, I didn’t comprehend the English words, but I understood their intended meaning.
“Utter it if they inquire,” the coyote instructed.
He also told me to await him at a McDonald’s in the Nogales located across the border, in Arizona. After I departed, my grandmother flew back to Mexico City. I often reflect on her experience, entrusting me to a stranger and returning alone, uncertain of my fate.
My life in the U.S. commenced in the quintessentially American setting: under fluorescent lights, amidst the scent of french fries, during a sweltering August, attempting to project an air of belonging. This border passage, concealed within a fast-food establishment, was followed by a cross-country journey from Arizona to Georgia.
For many years, I navigated life in the manner undocumented individuals know best: in the shadows. Before DACA, there was no established path. I remained inconspicuous, striving to blend in as much as possible, only visible enough to pass unnoticed, but never enough to truly be seen. I held an under-the-table job as a cashier at a deli restaurant, saving every dollar and envisioning futures that might never materialize. And like countless others, I waited.
When DACA was introduced in the summer of 2012, I didn’t apply immediately. I was 21 and harbored fears it might be a trick. Furthermore, I lacked the hundreds of dollars required. Once I had the funds and was finally prepared to submit my application, I gathered every document to substantiate my presence in the U.S. I recall meticulously reviewing each form before mailing it, dreading any potential error.
Upon receiving my work permit in the spring of 2013 and finally being able to apply for a social security number, I seized that opportunity as a vital lifeline. Yet, that sense of relief was consistently conditional. Every two years, the routine remained the same: apply, pay, wait, and worry, hoping USPS wouldn’t misplace my chance to work legally or that I wouldn’t simply be denied.
The uncertainty transcended a mere administrative process; it was an emotional roller coaster. I could perform Americanness, but I could never genuinely claim it. Why? Because there was always an accent, my place of birth, and the paperwork serving as reminders of my conditional belonging. They all underscored my status as an alien.
Nevertheless, I maintained faith. I believed because teachers, textbooks, and morning pledges had instilled in me the idea that if I diligently worked, adhered to the rules, and maintained a clean record, I would earn my rightful place in the land of the free.
However, as time passed, the reality became more pronounced than the dream. It echoed in the ICE raids that devastated homes and parking lots, in the silent disappearances of individuals within my community, and in the images of people resembling me shown in handcuffs on the evening news. What kind of freedom demands your silence merely to validate your worth? What kind of belonging criminalizes your very existence? I believed I would secure my place in the land of the free, until I understood that the cost of entry was my erasure.
I departed in 2022, before ICE raids became a regular occurrence under the new administration. Yet, current events only confirm what many of us already knew: the fear was perpetually present; it simply wasn’t always televised. And it is the same fear I carried for years until I chose to release it.
I did not self-deport to vanish, and certainly not to endorse any administration’s agenda. I left for myself, much like anyone who walks away from a place that has demanded too much and offered too little. I left on my own terms, not because I was compelled, but because I was prepared to move towards something superior. I wasn’t making a statement; I was making myself whole. In my own way, I was making myself great again.
When the opportunity arose to relocate abroad for employment, I seized it without hesitation. It offered a chance to further my professional development in Europe through my company’s international office. Crucially, it was also a place where I could finally breathe freely. I ceased waiting for a country to acknowledge me and began constructing a life where I could be truly seen. I exited with clarity, not bitterness, and closed that chapter behind me.
Across the Atlantic, in Spain, I was extended what had always been denied: not merely the right to reside, but the right to belong. Not a provisional solution, but citizenship granted without requiring an apology. It isn’t flawless—no place is—but it’s somewhere I could exist without constant justification. Where the right to simply be wasn’t a reward to be earned. They said, bienvenida. Welcome. And they genuinely meant it.
While my departure from the U.S. felt deeply personal, it is not an isolated experience. Many others have also quietly left, scattering across continents, carrying narratives akin to mine.
I am no longer undocumented. In fact, I am now extensively documented across multiple systems, in more than one language. However, I will never forget what it meant to live in the shadows without lasting protection. And I won’t pretend it ennobled me. The beauty of being undocumented does not lie in the pain itself, but in the growth that suffering compels within you.
To those who are still caught in uncertainty, still holding their breath in the only country they have ever known, I see you, and I understand why you remain. I recognize what you have endured. And I know that leaving is not a universal remedy, but should the moment ever arrive, should a door ever open, I hope you remember that staying is not the sole demonstration of belonging. Sometimes, choosing yourself is the bravest act you can perform.
