This is ours.
I am an immigrant and the daughter of immigrants.
I was born in El Salvador and came to the United States when I was four years old.
My parents made the difficult decision to leave our home because of the violence and uncertainty that surrounded the beginning of El Salvador’s civil war. Over the next twelve years, the country would endure one of the bloodiest conflicts in Latin America. More than 75,000 people lost their lives. Families were torn apart. Children were orphaned. Entire communities learned to live with fear.
Violence wasn’t the only struggle.
Jobs were scarce. Opportunities were few. My parents wanted something every mother and father longs to give their children, a chance to live in safety and to dream of a future.
So they made one of the hardest decisions parents can make.
They left home.
My parents believed the safest choice was to leave everything they knew in search of a life where they could simply survive.
My father made the journey first. Once he found work and settled in the United States, my mother and I prepared to follow him a year later.
Leaving wasn’t simply about crossing a border.
It meant saying goodbye to parents, siblings, friends, familiar streets, and everything they had ever known. It meant trusting God with a future they could not see.
Every immigrant family has a story.
Every family has its own reasons for leaving, its own journey, and its own hardships.
This is ours.
Walking Toward Hope
Traveling to the United States was dangerous and expensive, yet it carried the promise of something my parents longed to give their family: hope.
My parents came from humble families. They were hardworking people, but hard work alone could not provide the opportunities they longed for.
People often ask why immigrants don’t simply “get in line.”
For many families, including mine, it wasn’t that simple.
Applying for a visa or work permit required resources we simply didn’t have. Others never qualified because of circumstances beyond their control.
Crossing the border became the only path my parents believed they had.
Before I continue, I want to acknowledge something important.
Every immigrant family’s story is different.
Every family leaves for different reasons. Every journey is unique. Every circumstance is deeply personal.
This is simply ours.
My mother and I traveled to a city in Mexico near the border. There we waited with a small group of people until the early hours of the morning.
Before dawn, we began walking.
For more than five hours, we moved through the darkness in silence.
I was only four years old. And the only child in our group.
I still remember the moon lighting our path, the open fields stretching around us, and the cows quietly grazing nearby.
Someone whispered that I needed to stay very quiet so the cows wouldn’t begin to moo and alert the border patrol.
Even now, decades later, I remember that night.
After hours of walking and crossing the Rio Grande, we finally arrived.
Not simply in another country.
But in a place my parents prayed would become home.
A home full of hopes, dreams, and security
The Courage of a Mother
Every time I tell this story, I am reminded of how brave my mother was (is).
As a little girl, I simply held her hand.
As an adult, I understand the weight she carried.
She wasn’t just making a dangerous journey.
She was carrying the responsibility of protecting her four-year-old daughter while stepping into an unknown future.
She weighed the danger of staying against the danger of leaving.
She chose hope.
She chose sacrifice.
She chose to believe that freedom was worth the risk.
Looking back now, I realize just how courageous she truly was.
I will always be grateful for the choice she made.
The American Dream Wasn’t Free
Arriving in the United States was not the end of our journey.
It was only the beginning.
Building a life in the United States required years of sacrifice, hard work, and perseverance.
Nothing was handed to my parents.
Every opportunity came with sacrifice.
My father washed cars.
My mother cleaned houses.
They accepted jobs that many people overlooked because providing for their family mattered more than pride.
Every paycheck represented long hours, aching bodies, and dreams that were slowly becoming reality.
Their greatest investment wasn’t money.
It was themselves.
And then came another journey.
The immigration process.
They spent years navigating a system they barely understood.
They trusted attorneys who promised to help them.
Many took advantage of their desperation.
Money that had taken months to earn disappeared overnight.
Paperwork had to be started again.
Appointments were delayed.
Hope often felt just out of reach.
One of the greatest misconceptions about immigration is the idea that there is simply “a line” people can get into.
For many families, there isn’t.
There are years of waiting.
Thousands of dollars in legal fees.
Changing laws.
Complicated processes.
And countless moments of uncertainty.
Ten years after arriving in the United States, my mother and I finally received our permanent residency.
Years later, after nearly two decades of calling this country home, I became a United States citizen.
That day wasn’t simply about receiving a document.
It represented years of sacrifice.
Years of perseverance.
Years of prayer.
And the faithfulness of God.
Growing Up Between Two Worlds
When I was a little girl, I didn’t know I was undocumented.
I didn’t know we didn’t have much money.
I didn’t know my parents were carrying burdens they tried so hard to hide from us.
I simply knew that I was cared for.
We always had what we needed. We had food on the table, a place to sleep, clothes to wear, and parents who worked tirelessly to give us opportunities they never had.
As I grew older, however, I began to understand that there were doors that remained closed because of my legal status.
Most college scholarships were and are only available to U.S. citizens.
Medical care for undocumented families are very limited.
The jobs available to many immigrants often came with long hours, low wages, and little security.
But perhaps what hurt the most wasn’t what we lacked.
It was hearing the words people used to describe immigrants.
Words that reduced human beings to labels.
Words that ignored the sacrifices, the dreams, and the stories behind each family.
Those experiences taught me something I had never considered before.
A person’s legal status can shape how others see them.
But it does not determine their worth.
Every person bears the image of God.
Every story carries dignity.
My immigration status never defined who I was.
It simply became one part of my story.
A Legacy of Perseverance
My parents never allowed hardship to become an excuse for giving up.
They taught me that dignity is found in honest work.
That education is a gift.
And that faithfulness often looks like showing up day after day, even when the road is long.
Because of their sacrifices, I became the first person in my family to graduate from high school.
Then the first to graduate from college.
Today, many of my relatives have earned college degrees and built professional careers of their own.
What began with two parents willing to sacrifice everything has changed the story of generations that followed.
About ten years after receiving my permanent residency, I became a United States citizen.
Over four decades have passed since I first crossed the border.
I still remember standing at my naturalization ceremony.
Listening to the oath.
Holding my US flag.
Realizing that a journey that began in darkness had led to a day filled with light.
I wasn’t becoming someone new.
I was simply receiving, at last, the legal status my parents had worked and prayed for over so many years.
Looking Back, I See God’s Hand
As I reflect on our journey, I see God’s faithfulness woven through every chapter.
He protected us.
He provided for us.
He sustained us when we had little.
He opened doors we never imagined possible.
And He surrounded us with people who showed us kindness along the way.
Our story is ultimately not about immigration.
It is a story about God’s provision.
About parents who trusted Him when they couldn’t see what lay ahead.
About prayers whispered in uncertainty.
About hope that refused to give up.
When I look back, I don’t only remember crossing a border.
I remember crossing into a life where God’s faithfulness would meet us again and again.
The God Who Loves the Foreigner
As I have grown in my faith, I have also grown in my understanding of God’s heart for people who live far from home.
Scripture is filled with stories of men and women who became strangers in unfamiliar lands.
Abraham left everything familiar when God called him to another country.
Jacob and his family journeyed to Egypt during a time of famine.
Ruth left her homeland and became a foreigner among God’s people.
Even Jesus experienced life as a refugee.
Matthew tells us that Joseph was warned in a dream to flee to Egypt because King Herod sought to kill the Christ child (Matthew 2:13-15).
Mary and Joseph understood what it meant to leave home in order to protect their son.
Knowing that Jesus’ own family experienced displacement has always brought me comfort.
God understands the journey of the foreigner because His Son walked that road.
Throughout Scripture, God repeatedly reminds His people to care for those who are strangers among them.
Leviticus 19:33–34 says,
“When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them… Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.”
And in Deuteronomy 10:18–19 we read,
“He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you… And you are to love those who are foreigners.”
These verses have shaped the way I understand both my story and my calling.
Why I Tell My Story
I don’t share my story because I believe immigration is simple.
It isn’t.
I understand that every nation has the responsibility to protect its borders.
I understand the need for laws.
I also understand that immigration is a deeply complex issue with no easy answers.
But I have also lived the human side of that complexity.
I know what it feels like to be reduced to a label.
To be misunderstood by people who have never heard your story.
To carry an identity that others use to define your worth.
That is why I write.
One of the reasons I started Wordless Voice was to use my voice for stories that often go unheard.
Stories that invite compassion instead of assumptions.
Stories that remind us that behind every debate are real people created in the image of God.
Mothers.
Fathers.
Children.
Students.
Neighbors.
Coworkers.
Friends.
People with names.
People with hopes.
People with stories.
My desire is not to convince you to support a political party or a particular policy.
My desire is much simpler.
I hope my story encourages you to pause before making assumptions.
To listen before forming opinions.
To choose compassion over fear.
Perhaps there is someone in your neighborhood, your church, your workplace, or your classroom who carries a story like mine.
Have you ever asked them to share it?
You might discover that what once felt like a political issue becomes deeply personal when you know someone’s name.
Every immigrant family has a story.
This is ours.
Stay tuned to the next word…
