One Latina’s Journey Back to Her Roots to Save Her Sanity

I was born in the United States, but my roots run deep in Mexican soil. As a first-generation Latina and the daughter of immigrants, I was raised to believe in the promise of the American Dream: that if I worked hard, stayed grateful, and followed the rules, I would find security, purpose, and belonging.

But for many of us—especially those of us with brown skin, immigrant parents, and intergenerational trauma woven into our nervous systems—that dream has become more of a burden than a blessing. What used to represent hope and opportunity now feels like a slow erosion of our mental, emotional, and even physical health.

For years, I tried to make it work. I built a career, bought a house, paid my taxes, and showed up in my community. I navigated a country that expected me to assimilate while subtly (and sometimes overtly) reminding me I didn’t fully belong. I carried not only my own stress, but also the weight of my parents’ sacrifices and the unspoken expectation that I should be “making something of myself” in the country they gave up everything for.

But the truth is, surviving in America as a first-gen woman of color has felt increasingly unsustainable. Especially under this administration, where cruelty and chaos have become normalized, and where people like me are expected to keep pushing through systemic inequities without complaint. The collective anxiety is real. The burnout is real. And for many of us, it's quietly killing our spirits—and harming our bodies.

So I made a choice. A radical, tender, deeply personal choice: to leave.

Recently, I spent a month in Mexico, a place that has always felt like an extension of my soul. I went with the intention of simply exploring—of giving myself space to imagine another way of living. I thought it would take the full 30 days to decide whether I could ever make it permanent. But by day three, I already knew.

My body began to relax. I started sleeping better. I walked more, moved more, breathed more deeply. I found myself laughing in conversations with Uber drivers, exchanging warmth with neighbors, and enjoying simple, beautiful moments with strangers who didn’t see me as “other.” I wasn’t just surviving—I was living. I felt seen. Safe. Human.

In Mexico, I didn’t need to over-explain my existence. I didn’t feel the constant background noise of needing to prove my worth, or hide my culture to make others comfortable. I didn’t feel like my nervous system was in a constant state of vigilance. I felt connected—to the land, to my ancestry, to myself.

This isn’t to say Mexico is perfect. Like any country, it has its complexities. But the emotional and physical shift I experienced there was undeniable. It showed me that peace wasn’t some abstract ideal—it was available. Tangible. And it required me to be brave enough to choose it.

So now, I am preparing to “self-deport,” not out of shame or failure, but out of love—for myself, for my lineage, and for a future that feels more aligned with who I really am. The old American Dream may be fading, but I’m creating a new one—rooted in joy, health, rest, and reconnection.

Not everyone will understand this decision. And I know not everyone has the option to leave. But what I hope people take away from this is that we have permission to reimagine our lives. We don’t have to keep grinding ourselves down to meet outdated expectations. We don’t have to stay in places that harm us just because they’re familiar.

Sometimes, the most revolutionary act we can take is to listen to our bodies, trust our instincts, and walk away from what no longer serves us.

I’m not abandoning the dream. I’m rewriting it on my own terms.

And maybe that’s the most American thing I’ve ever done.