From Cuba to America: A Journey of Sacrifice, Separation, and Resilience

From Cuba to America: A Journey of Sacrifice, Separation, and Resilience

Cuba is an island I have never visited, yet it has always lived in my heart.

My parents and grandparents were born there, and growing up in Miami, stories of Cuba were woven into everyday life. Around our family table, I heard about pristine white-sand beaches, Sunday drives through Havana, and life at the Ingenio (Sugar Mill) in Violeta, Camagüey.

My grandparents described a place where neighbors knew one another, families looked out for each other, and the people who worked at the Ingenio were more than employees—they were part of a community. Housing, stability, and a sense of belonging were woven into daily life.

To a little girl growing up in Miami, Cuba sounded magical.

Ironically, despite hearing these stories my entire life, I have never set foot there myself.

Of course, the stories weren't all serious.

My mother, especially, was known for keeping people on their toes. She loved to tell stories about the mischief she caused during her school days. Looking back, I suspect some of my independent streak came from her.

My mother was born in 1945 and spent her childhood during a period of tremendous change in Cuba. She was fifteen years old when Fidel Castro declared himself a socialist and the country began transforming before her eyes.

Yet when she spoke about her education, her eyes would light up.

She often told me that by middle school she was already studying trigonometry and calculus. She believed the education she received in Cuba was exceptional and would often say that by the age of fifteen, students were more than prepared for college-level work.

The summers of her youth were spent at the beach, enjoying freedom after months away at boarding school. Those memories remained vivid throughout her life.

Growing up, I lost count of how many times I heard Cuba described as a place where education mattered deeply. My family often spoke about a thriving middle class and a culture where opportunity was tied more closely to education and achievement than to family wealth.

Then everything changed.

In 1961, as Cuba's political landscape shifted, my grandparents faced an impossible decision.

Like many parents throughout history, they wanted something every mother and father wants for their child: opportunity, freedom, and hope.

Believing they could provide a better future, they sent my fifteen-year-old mother to live with a family in Mexico while they traveled to Spain to begin rebuilding their lives.

Imagine that for a moment.

A young girl separated from her parents.

Parents separated from their daughter.

Not because they wanted to be apart, but because they believed the sacrifice was necessary for her future.

It was an act of courage, faith, and love.

While living in Spain, my grandparents began the process of immigrating to the United States. The journey was difficult, uncertain, and filled with obstacles, but they never lost sight of their goal.

Eventually, they arrived in Miami.

And eventually, after years of separation, they were reunited with their daughter.

Whenever I think about that moment, I think about resilience.

I think about parents willing to sacrifice everything for their children.

I think about the courage it takes to leave behind the only home you've ever known.

Most of all, I think about family.

My mother's story is a story of sacrifice, separation, perseverance, and hope. It is also a reminder that behind every immigration story is a human story.

A family.

A dream.

A difficult choice.

A future worth fighting for.

As I've reflected on these stories over the years, I've often felt called to write a book about what it means to grow up in a Cuban family in the United States. Not just the politics or the history, but the culture, traditions, values, humor, food, faith, and resilience that shaped who we became.

Because although I have never lived in Cuba, Cuba has always lived in me.

And like so many children of immigrants, I carry both the memory of a homeland I never knew and the gratitude for the opportunities my family worked so hard to create.

That, more than anything, is the legacy they gave me.