Back to Florida

I never imagined I would be back in Florida just two weeks after setting off on a trip that was supposed to last over a year. I thought back to all the goodbyes, the frantic packing, and the hugs I hadn’t managed to give.

After getting off the auto-train in Virginia, our plan was to visit family and then continue on to New York. As I walked the city streets, I received a message I had been waiting months for—one I had already assumed would never come.

A Ceremony?

That day, my journey took an unexpected turn; my ceremony had been scheduled, and instead of heading north, I had to return to my starting point to receive my citizenship.

Carolina

That change of plans gave me a week I hadn’t anticipated: I returned to Maryland to celebrate and remember my Carolina on what would have been her 44th birthday. For those new to my story: Carolina was a daughter life gifted to me—a child for whom, due to painful circumstances, I stepped into the role of mother.

I was there the day she was born; she was the first baby I was close to, arriving before my own children. I was able to care for her, bathe her, and play with her every single moment. There are so many memories spanning those 41 years that I couldn’t possibly list them all: her silly songs, her birthdays, concerts, and plays. Vacations with cousins ​​and the dreaded lice-removal sessions; her dreams of becoming an astronaut, her aerospace engineering degrees, her wedding, the untimely death of her parents, the birth of her children…

But in the end, I had to walk her through the hardest journey of all: I stayed by her side, caring for her and holding her hand, throughout the long months as terminal pancreatic cancer took her life.

A Joyful Tribute

This week, two years after her passing, we honored her life by inviting friends and neighbors to join us for a *sancocho*—a hearty stew—cooked over a wood fire, just as she remembered it from her visits to Colombia. Her husband and I embarked on the adventure of preparing it: from buying the gigantic pot to selecting a long list of ingredients.

The soup simmered slowly until it reached the perfect point where the flavors melded and the broth thickened.

The “sancocho”

Want the recipe? Follow the link here.

I also prepared the Milo dessert—her favorite. Twenty-four hours of work to honor her memory.

Back to Florida

The next morning, I flew to Florida for my ceremony. I arrived with enough time to visit a dreamlike spot with my daughter. We went to Honeymoon Island State Park and witnessed an epic sunset—the kind you only see at this time of year. Upon reaching the beach, we heard thunder in the distance, yet a calm, blue sky was reflected in the luminous water. As we floated on the warm waves, we watched the seagulls, herons, and ibises flying peacefully.

Suddenly, the wind picked up, and gusts drove in a storm that darkened the sky with heavy clouds; yet, the light refused to vanish. It found ways to pierce the gloom with intense colors, and late in the afternoon, the sun slipped out from beneath the clouds. Only a brilliant yellow strip remained, where the sun appeared triumphant, shining with unusual intensity. A couple of minutes later, it disappeared over the horizon.

My grandfather

The next morning, I woke up early thinking about my maternal grandfather—whom I never met, as he passed away when I was barely three years old. It was the day of my ceremony, and I felt grateful to my mom for sharing an anecdote that came to mind during this emotional moment.

My grandfather came from an unusual family. He was born in Jamaica; his father’s family was French, and his mother’s was from London. He grew up in Colombia—having arrived there as a child—and one of the greatest sources of pride in his life was receiving Colombian citizenship. My mother used to tell me that whenever the national anthem played, he would ask his children to stand and honor it with deep respect for the land that had welcomed him.

Belonging

As I held the certificate in my hands, I reflected on how we often believe that belonging means choosing a single place. Over the years, I have discovered that isn’t the case. Belonging can also mean carrying multiple landscapes within oneself. Colombia will always be the land where I was born. But now, officially, I also belong to the land where two of my children grew up and live.

Perhaps that is why this journey ended where it had begun.

Or perhaps, like all good journeys, it was simply a circle that needed to close so that life could move forward.