by Valentina Nobile

Five years ago my world felt like it was shattering into pieces. The year 2019 my parents told me we were moving to Florida. I know what some might say—why complain about that when my life in Ecuador wasn’t going anywhere? And it’s true. How could it? The country had, and still has, a noose around everyone’s necks. It doesn’t make it less exciting to leave everything you know and love behind. For many South Americans, the experience of loving and resenting our countries is what keeps us going, if we are lucky enough. 

The next thing I knew was that Covid-19 had become my newest nightmare—everyone’s nightmare. Three days before my birthday, the entire country went into a full lockdown. I don’t think I stepped outside my house until July or August. Yes, Ecuador took the lockdown very seriously. I understand why though. Those were dark times for everyone, especially our heroes—our doctors. They truly saw the worst aspects of the pandemic: death, sickness, more death, and bodies that no longer fit in the morgues. That’s how it was in Ecuador—that’s what I experienced.

Luckily enough, my family and I were safe, and by the end of the year we arrived in Florida—my parents, my sister, and I. We searched for a better future, like most people who leave their countries. Unfortunately, we could only bring a small amount of clothes, maybe some photos, and all the cash we had saved, which wasn’t much.

The first year was rough, to say the least. All those stories I had read about poor families traveling to the dreamland in search of the American dream fell short of the strength required to survive the first year. The first year away from everyone you love, your home, your friends, your jobs, your pets, your language—your entire life. That’s how it felt to me—my entire life. After all, life in my country was all I knew for seventeen years.

In Ecuador, the mornings were filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of my grandmother’s voice echoing all the way from the kitchen to my room. The vibrant colors of the markets and the streets, with people walking everywhere, always trying to sell you their piles of ripe fruits and vegetables—and their voices being a symphony I still remember. The warmth of the sun on my skin and the cool breeze in the cities closest to the mountains was always the best part about going on road-trips to Bucay and Pallatanga—sleeping in cozy cabins and bathing in the fresh waters of rivers and water-falls. The laughter of my friends and the chatter and constant exciting yelling of my extended family during Christmas reunions and birthdays were always heartwarming.

And Florida was nothing like Ecuador. The humid air clung to my skin, and the flat landscape stretched out endlessly, devoid of the mountains I had grown up with. The sounds of traffic and the hum of air conditioners became the new symphony I listened to. And our reunions, birthdays, and house were now devoid of the laughter and company of my grandmother and all other family members. I never thought I would cry and pray to God to take me back—to save my country from corruption, poverty, classism, and murderers. I still do—pray for it. For those who couldn’t leave, and for those who no longer can.

I moved here during the most crucial time of my life, and now, I am grateful that I did. Florida changed my life. After the first year passed and most of the crying ended, I finally adjusted. I was able to call the place we had rented—my home. Which doesn’t seem like much, but for an entire year I refused to do that. It felt like saying those words was a betrayal—a knife stabbed in the back of my seventeen-year-old self who seemed to be frozen in time. Admitting that this two-bedroom apartment thousands of miles away from my country was my home felt like making the intangible tangible, the impossible possible, and my reality very much real.

Nonetheless, time does heal—and by the end of the following year, I had accepted my situation. I finally admitted to myself that this wasn’t a long and dreadful vacation—this was my life now. And there was pride in that. Because I had worked hard to make it happen. My family and I had fought against our own demons and those around us to get here—to Florida.

With new eyes and an open mind, Florida was ravishingly beautiful. It was a refreshing sight compared to the encaged view in Ecuador—the cities surrounded by sky-reaching mountains. Don’t get me wrong, I love and miss those mountains with my life. But the open sight of Florida seemed like an endless ocean of possibilities now.

St. Augustine, in particular, captivated me. The old city, with its cobblestone streets and centuries-old buildings, felt like stepping back in time. The Castillo de San Marcos National Monument stood majestically by the water, its sight beautiful and unforgettable. 

The beaches were breathtaking, with their soft, white sand and the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore. St. Augustine’s beach is a place I will forever remember because it was there that with the salty air and the warmth of the sun on my skin, my husband got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.

The Florida Keys were another paradise I discovered. My best friend and I escaped there for ten unforgettable days. We basked in the sun, our skin turning golden as we tanned on the pristine beaches. We swam with sharks, feeling the thrill of adventure, and kayaked through the clear, turquoise waters. The heat of the sun, the island breeze, and the freedom of exploring on our bikes made it a perfect getaway—just us two, the island, key lime pie and endless days of fun.

Florida introduced me to a brighter perspective, and not just because of the intense heat of our sun state. The openness of its people and the mingling of a variety of extravagant cultures, food, music—all together and linked by our home is something I cherish. That’s what I like the most, the opportunity to meet so many new faces, each with its own colorful background. Each time I met someone new, I felt like I was getting to see inside different countries. It was comforting—to see others who I could relate to and at the same time learn from. Florida offered me love, friendship, and acceptance. As well as beautiful sights, ocean, and sand—somewhat a reminder of my own home.

And now I could see it—my future. I could see myself going for my dream career, which never before would have been possible. I saw myself going to a school with unlimited resources and people who embody intelligence and hard work. I could see myself learning from them—aspiring to be half as good as my favorite professors. Ultimately, I saw myself writing.

Today, I see it as a special thing—being able to call myself a resident of Florida. I take it as an honor and a prideful thing to invite family members to come and share what I see and experience every day. I enjoy being the one who shows them—who can say, “Come, see where I live.”

Still, I see myself writing. I see myself writing about my experiences, my struggles, my dreams, and my goals. I see myself at my school, the University of Central Florida, hoping and working to follow in the footsteps of the people who teach me. Those who share their passion and truly care about passing it down. People I couldn’t have found until I moved to Florida.

Florida taught me that change, no matter how daunting, can lead to growth and new opportunities. It showed me the importance of resilience and the beauty of embracing new experiences. And when I miss my country or fear a new experience, I try to remember that every challenge I face can be a stepping stone to a brighter future. 

I am grateful—I really am. And if I could see my seventeen-year-old self, a girl so afraid and hopeless, I would just tell her to wait. Open your eyes to the opportunity you have been given—be patient, and be kind to yourself in the process. And when you see it like I know you will—like I did, just take a moment to take it all in.