Every day at 6 AM in the suburban town of Navarrete, Dominican Republic, the neighbor’s roosters would “Cock-a-doodle-do” me out of slumber—until one day, they didn’t. My dad had been making countless trips to Santo Domingo, a two-hour journey each way, to prepare for our move to the U.S. At six years old, I didn’t fully understand. One morning, my mom woke me in the dark, my clothes laid out and over ten suitcases packed. I thought we were going on vacation.

At the airport, my dad helped us check in, but he stayed behind. I vividly remember him waving as we boarded the plane, his figure disappearing into the distance. That’s when I realized this was no vacation. My mom, sister, and I were embarking on a journey to Nueva York—a place we’d never even visited—leaving my dad behind in Navarrete and, emotionally, leaving part of myself with him.

When we landed, a bird had struck the plane. Though we weren’t in danger, I was shaken. My grandparents’ house was crowded with unfamiliar yet somehow familiar faces. Adjusting to Haverstraw took time; it felt like a New York version of a Navarrete . Still, so much had changed: a new language, new people, new culture, and, most painfully, no dad.

On my first day of first grade, I was nervous, feeling like everyone was staring at me—as if I were an alien. Technically, I was. The law even calls immigrants “aliens,” meaning “belonging to a foreign country.” I was placed in an ESL class with students who shared similar backgrounds. At first, it didn’t seem too different from school in Navarrete—until I sat cross-legged on the carpet, listening to the alphabet song in a language I couldn’t understand.

The letters looked the same, but everything sounded different. I struggled to speak English and had to take extra classes. My classmates teased me about my last name, Espinal, calling it “weird” or too long. Some even called me “Espinaca,” Spanish for spinach. My mother, who had been a schoolteacher back home, now worked in a factory to support us.

I began to hate school. I’d fake being sick, throw tantrums at the bus stop—anything to avoid going. I didn’t understand why life had to be so hard. But my perspective shifted when I saw my sister, who had also arrived with no English skills, graduate in the top 10% of her class and become the first in our family to attend college in the U.S. Her resilience inspired me. I realized the sacrifices my family had made—the hours my mom worked in a factory, the separation from my dad—were all for my sister and me to have opportunities they never had.

As my English improved, so did my attitude. I stopped seeing school as a burden and began embracing the challenges. I grew determined to honor my family’s sacrifices and to prove to myself that I could succeed despite the obstacles.

Today, I thrive in my studies and leadership roles. I’ve embraced my identity, finding pride in my last name and the journey it represents. The struggles of learning a new language, adapting to a new culture, and facing ridicule have shaped me into someone resilient, motivated, and empathetic.

Whenever I feel overwhelmed, I think of my mother’s words: “Continúa quién quieres ser. Este mundo está aquí para ti y para lograr todas tus metas. Estoy orgulloso de ti.” (“Continue to be who you want to be. This world is here for you to achieve all your goals. I am proud of you.”)

These words remind me that every sacrifice, every challenge, and every triumph has led me to this moment. They remind me to keep striving, not just for myself but for my family, for my younger self, and for the life my parents dreamed I could have.