The Sound of Belonging

I was fifteen — old enough to understand, old enough to feel pain, old enough to know what it meant to miss something deeply.

I had always loved Mexico.

It was the place I could truly call home.

There was relief in simple things —

eating elote after school,

walking to the plaza with my friends,

feeling the sun on my skin almost all year round.

Maybe around December you'd need a light jacket —

what most people would generously call "winter."

And the beach —

the beach was always there, waiting,

like a secret friend you could visit anytime.

I felt free.

I felt alive.

And, most of all, I felt happy.

Of course, I wasn't old enough yet to fully understand the cracks beneath the

beauty:

the low wages, the lack of opportunities, the danger, the cartels, the kidnappings.

I knew it could be dangerous.

Everyone said so.

But millions of people lived there,

people who loved it just as fiercely as I did.

It was still my home.

As an only child, the person I spent most of my time with — besides my friends —

was my grandma.

We spent weekend afternoons together,

sitting on the front porch,

watching the neighborhood kids play soccer in the street,

laughing at their excitement, their shouts filling the warm air.

Sometimes we walked to the little tiendita around the corner,

buying chips, sweets, and small treats,

sharing simple joys that felt like treasures.

Our special place used to be a small tropical restaurant by the beach —

the one that sold coconuts and the most delicious tacos you could imagine.

It smelled of sea salt, lime, and grilled tortillas.

It smelled like happiness.

One day, everything changed.

My parents made a decision:

to leave everything behind,

to start a new life —

far away from Mexico.

"It was hard to say goodbye without knowing when we would be back."

And so, my journey in the United States began.

I wasn’t old enough to choose.

Not yet.

It was hard at first.

I had to repeat tenth grade without knowing any English.

It was frustrating, embarrassing, and lonely sometimes.

But the teachers were kind.

They were patient.

But that didn’t matter to me.

I missed everything — and everyone:

my friends,

my uncles, aunts, cousins,

and especially my grandma.

We were alone there.

And there was no going back.

If we returned to Mexico,

we would risk everything.

Springs came and went, just like winters.

And before I knew it, there I was — about to complete twelfth grade.

By then, I could communicate in English.

I could talk better than before, understand, and studying had become easier.

But my wounds hadn’t healed.

A few weeks before graduation,

my parents sat down for a serious conversation with me.

“You have opportunities here," they said.

"You're about to be an adult, and now you can decide.

Do you want to try getting your American residency?”

It was the hardest question they had ever asked me.

At nearly eighteen,

I knew that staying might mean a better job,

a better education,

a better life —

or at least, that's what everyone always said.

But deep down,

I didn’t even know what I wanted to become.

My mom looked at me like she was hoping —

no, needing —

to hear only one answer:

that I would stay.

My dad seemed more relaxed,

like he truly meant it when he said the decision was mine.

Or at least, I thought he did.

Until he added:

“If you go back, then you'll have to pay for your own studies.”

In Mexico,

parents usually help pay for their children's education —

because it’s hard,

very hard,

to afford it on your own.

I knew if I decided to stay I wouldnt be able to go back to Mexico for about at least

five more years. But if I left it would mean forever, or until my parents were

american.

“I will stay,” I whispered.

My parents looked at each other feeling proud, as if it had been the best decision.

I will remember that night forever.

I cried as I looked through old photos.

I truly missed my country —

It had been nearly three years since I had last returned.

But beyond the longing,

there was a strange sensation growing inside me —

something whispering that I didn’t quite belong anymore.

Of course I didn’t.

I wasn’t American, not like everyone else.

My accent was too strong.

I loved putting lime on everything I ate —

not ranch dressing, not ketchup — but lime and salsa.

I didn’t have real friends,

just classmates I hung out with during school hours.

I didn’t know what I wanted to study at university.

And, worst of all,

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

It was like having two identities,

and every time I spoke English,

I felt like I couldn’t fully be myself.

My grandma always told me:

"Your voice is one of the most important parts of who you are.

It’s how your thoughts come to life."

But how could I express myself,

if my voice in English didn’t sound like my own?

I went to university, of course, I had to work to help my parents pay the expensive tuition fee for a non- American citizen. I decided to become a teacher —

because I had always loved being part of the teaching environment.

University life was much better than high school.

I had a couple of real friends —

friends who, like me, weren’t American by ethnicity.

One of them was Yui, from Japan.

She was the best friend I could have ever asked for.

Together, we improved our English,

helping each other, laughing at our mistakes.

I felt like myself every time I was around her.

I also met someone else special —

Alena, from the Czech Republic.

She was a little older, a little wiser,

and she taught me things I didn’t know I needed to learn:

how to drive,

how to survive the day after a university party.

(That only happened twice. I quickly learned I was not a good drinker.)

In my second year of university,

Something unfortunate happened.

I still remember it vividly:

I had just come home after my shift at McDonald's.

I was in the kitchen, cooking some quesadillas,

when my dad received a call.

“What?!” he shouted, his voice full of panic.

“She was fine yesterday when we spoke!”

I stared at him.

He looked worried —

his face trying to tell me something before the words did.

He covered the phone and whispered,

“She’s in the hospital… on her deathbed.”

"Who?" I asked, my voice already shaking,

my heart was turning cold.

"Grandma Dolores," he said.

I ran to my room.

Turned on my laptop.

Frantically searched for flights:

Buffalo to Vallarta.

I found one.

I was about to click PAY

when my dad walked into my room —

tears in his eyes.

"Mariana, please don't do it," he said, his voice almost too calm.

"There’s no coming back."

"My grandma... mi abuela," I cried.

"I’m sorry," he said.

The last time I had seen her,

I was just fifteen.

Skinny,

with hair so long it reached my hips,

skin sun-kissed and golden,

face still round with childhood.

The last time I saw her,

she smiled and said:

"You are strong, very strong. Don’t ever doubt that.

And you are my nieta consentida."

She said I was her favorite grandchild —

because we had always been together,

because we had shared the most laughter,

The longest hours,

the warmest afternoons.

And now...

I wasn’t there by her side

when she needed me the most.

She had said I was strong.

But I didn’t feel that way.

After she passed...

I fell into a stage of depression.

I didn’t eat well.

Or sometimes, I binge-ate without control.

I stopped hanging out with my friends —

for months, at least.

It was painful.

Time passed by —

or maybe it rushed past,

in the blink of an eye.

Before I knew it,

I was starting my final year of university.

I was no longer an immature eighteen-year-old.

I had gained wisdom,

knowledge,

Maturity.

And my English — my English had grown strong.

The heavy accent had almost faded,

and people often assumed I had been living in the U.S. since childhood.

It was during that time that I met Mateo.

He was Mexican, like me.

He was also trying to get his residency.

Mateo was funny —

just the way so many Mexicans naturally are.

He was kind,

caring —

the rainbow after my long storm.

He wasn’t in university.

He was working as a language teacher at a language school.

Mateo had mastered Spanish, English, French, and even Japanese.

He said learning languages came easily to him.

And he was a great teacher —

I could say that for sure,

because I was learning French with him.

Maybe it was the "love language," after all.

Because we decided,

one day,

we would go to France together.

Little by little, I realized I did have a love for languages too —

just like my grandma had once told me.

"Speaking," she said, "is how we show who we truly are."

I was Marianita when I spoke Spanish —

the silly girl with a warm Mexican humor.

I became Marianne — my nickname for non-Spanish speakers —

or Mari, when I tried speaking the B1-level French I had learned.

I graduated from university.

During the ceremony, my mom was video-calling the whole family.

They all watched as I received my diploma.

My dad was there.

Mateo was there too.

My grandma wasn’t.

She couldn’t see the woman I had grown into.

But I knew —

her spirit was right there,

inside my heart.

All I could think about were the sacrifices I had made —

the pieces of myself I had given up along the way.

I thought of the young girl I once was,

so lost, with no idea of who she wanted to become.

And to be honest, I still felt like that.

I had believed that by now,

I would have everything figured out —

that life would feel solid, stable, certain.

But standing there, diploma in hand, I realized:

I was still a work in progress.

Still dreaming.

Still learning.

After the celebration was over,

for the third time in my life,

I drank —

probably not too much,

but enough to loosen my tongue.

Thoughts I had never dared to speak out loud spilled from me:

"I don’t want to be here anymore.

You know what? I could just buy a ticket and go back to my lovely beach town

tomorrow.

I hate this place.

I wish I never came here.

Why do so many people want to come to the U.S.?

What’s so special about it?

I want to go home."

I don’t remember much after that.

But I guess I had upset my parents.

The next morning, after I took some pills for my terrible headache,

Mateo was right there beside me.

"I don’t think I like this place either," he said, smiling softly.

"I mean... It's great for vacations.

The U.S. has everything — mountains, beaches, every kind of weather, every culture. But... I miss home."

I looked at him, unsure how to react.

Was he willing to abandon his dream?

Was he willing to leave behind all his effort?

I was ready.

I had been ready for a long time.

"Do you want to go back?" I asked.

He nodded.

"I thought it was your dream," I said.

"It was," Mateo answered.

"I thought I'd be happier here — with a higher salary, a nicer home, a better car

But then I realized — happiness isn’t found in things.

It’s found in people, in experiences, in the place you call home."

"I sacrificed so much to be here," I whispered, my voice trembling.

"My grandma, for example."

"You achieved so much too," Mateo said.

"You graduated. You met people who became almost like family.

You met me."

I hugged him, crying into his shoulder.

I knew he was right.

I had gained experiences,

strength,

resilience —

things I would never have found any other way.

But this wasn’t my path.

It was probably my parents’ dream,

not mine.

Two weeks later, we went back to Mexico.

I wasn’t a fifteen-year-old girl anymore, I was almost twenty-three.

My skin wasn’t as tanned, but not pale either.

My hair, once long and flowing, now brushed my shoulders, darker and straighter.

My face had lost its childhood roundness.

I was different.

And Mexico...

Mexico still had the same scent,

but my small city — Puerto Vallarta —

seemed different, too.

My cousins were grown.

The youngest was eleven.

They all greeted Mateo warmly when we arrived.

I teared up.

I could almost picture my grandma, sitting in her old rocking chair in the corner.

But I was happy.

Truly happy.

I felt the joy of coming home,

even if I was a different version of myself.

Maybe I wasn’t entirely the same Mexican girl anymore.

But lime and salsa still ran through my blood.

That afternoon, Mateo and I went for a walk by the beach.

We talked about visiting his family in Guadalajara — just a two-hour drive away.

"Oh, are you ready to try the best tacos ever?" I asked, interrupting our

conversation, laughing.

We walked to the spot where my grandma and I used to go —

the small restaurant by the beach, the one with coconuts.

But it was gone.

"Tacos El Amigo" had shut down just a month before.

A worker in the neighboring restaurant told us,

"They're building a small hostel now."

I looked at Mateo, heart sinking.

He hugged me tightly.

"No worries," he said.

"You can take me anywhere.

Where else did you go with your grandma?"

I shook my head, trying to smile.

"This place has changed so much...

I don't even know if any of the old places are still here."

But nature doesn’t vanish.

We went down to the beach —

the one where the waves were always calm,

perfect for sitting on the shore,

where my grandma used to sit with me.

We sat there too,

waiting for the sunset,

talking about everything —

about our past,

and about our future.

I believed —

for the first time in a long time —

that I would have a good future.

Because now,

I was back in my own country,

with my own language,

in my own culture.

"I have an idea," I whispered into Mateo’s ear.

It all started as a simple idea.

Of course, it took countless sacrifices —

a year of saving money,

of navigating endless legal procedures,

of believing in a dream no one else could see.

But finally, we did it:

we opened our own language academy.

Teaching had always been my major —

but this felt different.

It wasn’t just about grammar or vocabulary.

It was about teaching people to see the world through new eyes,

to touch different cultures,

to find new parts of themselves — through language.

"Palabras del Corazón" was the name of our little academy downtown.

("Words from the Heart," in English.)

(And the slogan?)

"A language is not just grammar — it’s identity."

We were happy.

And for the first time in a long time,

that was all that mattered.

My parents still followed their own path —

leaving Mexico behind,

calling it success.

But for me,

success wasn’t about fighting the urge to miss home.

It wasn’t about escaping.

It was about building something real,

something meaningful,

in the place where my heart had always belonged —

in the place that had watched me grow,

even when no one else believed in me.

It had been a painful process.

It had broken me more times than I could count.

But in the end,

I made it possible.

And I made it mine.