Reflections of a Latina Immigrant Veteran in a Divided America

These are heavy times in America. People seem more reactive, more defensive, quicker to label each other. You can feel it everywhere: online, around dinner tables, even in therapy sessions. Many are carrying a kind of collective exhaustion, and no matter where people fall politically, the emotional toll feels the same: frustration, fear, anger, and above all, a deep sense of disconnection.

With Veterans Day approaching, I find myself reflecting on how my identity as both a veteran and a Latina immigrant shapes how I see this country. After almost 30 years of calling the U.S. home, I've been sitting with my own mix of loyalty, concern, and belonging. Old wounds around identity have resurfaced, pulling me to put my thoughts into words.

Maybe this will resonate with you. Maybe it will invite you to pause and consider your own experience. My hope is that somewhere along the way, you might find a moment of connection or see something from a perspective you hadn't considered before. So let’s dive in.

Becoming Part of the Immigrant Story

Me as a toddler sitting in our garden in Cuba. Keeping it authentic. You’ll have to excuse the low photo quality of the 80s.

I was born in Cuba to college professor parents, though that would soon change. I wasn't even a year old when my father was imprisoned for his political beliefs and sentenced to 30 years. My mother suddenly found herself raising my older sister and me alone, fired from her teaching position and shunned for having a "counter-revolutionary" or gusano (not exactly an endearing term, if you’re wondering) in the family. I don't remember much from those years, just enough to know those were trying times. I remember selling family heirlooms for cash, or having a glass of sugar water to quiet the hunger.

Like many immigrant stories, mine began with a dream. Despite the hardship around me, I grew up imagining a life beyond my reality. A place where, if you worked hard enough, you could make something of yourself. But more importantly, a place that allowed you to be yourself. I remember having this quiet knowing that things would get better, even at 9 or 10, long before I knew how that could happen.

As it turns out, my father was released from prison early. When the opportunity came to apply for political asylum, we took it. But that opportunity came with a cost. My mother and sister had to stay behind. I was 16 when I left Cuba with my father and grandmother, carrying both hope and heartbreak as we began our new life as political refugees. I still remember the promise I made my mom the day I left: "You don't have to worry anymore. I will work hard, and I will provide for you."

With my mom (my biggest hero!) in Cuba, when I was 15. One of our last photos together before I moved to the U.S.

Starting over was a mixed bag. At first, we wore donated church clothes and survived on public assistance. We were immensely grateful for the help, yet the goal was always to get off it as soon as possible. So we hustled. My dad's first job was selling encyclopedias door to door. I know, that sounds insane now, but this was the 90s. Later, cemetery lots. Then housekeeping. I attended high school during the day and worked evenings and weekends at a retail store (I might have overdone it, passed out at the store one night and discovered what 911 was, but that's a story for another day).

We navigated financial need, culture shock, a language barrier, and the quiet ache of being uprooted from everything familiar. Even though we'd only traveled 90 miles across the ocean, it felt like stepping into another world. This was before cell phones or the internet, so if I wanted to hear my mother's voice, I had to buy a long-distance calling card or visit a calling booth (I'll be impressed if you know what those are) and ration my words into five-minute conversations to make my budget last.

A turning point came the day we paid our first bill: reimbursing the Lutheran church for our plane tickets. Writing that check made me feel like I'd earned my place, like we were finally standing on our own feet. I was inspired by everything this country offered, yet I still struggled to feel like I truly belonged.

What the Military Gave Me

My enlistment photo at 19. I swear, I wasn’t sad to join, despite what my face is saying.

I didn’t join the U.S. Army out of some grand patriotic call, I must admit. At first, it was simple: I wanted stability, challenge, and security. I liked the benefits and the potential for travel. And I've always found purpose in being of service to others, so training as a medical specialist and later as a mental health specialist felt like a natural fit.

But my time in service shaped me in far more profound ways than I expected. The military became my first real home in this country. I served alongside people from every imaginable background: different races, religions, political views, hometowns, accents. Yet somehow, it felt like a big, cohesive family. I learned that connection doesn't require sameness; it requires trust.

Some of my fondest memories come from those early years. Like the staff sergeant who negotiated my first new car, drove it off the lot, then spent days teaching me to drive stick shift. Or when my fellow soldier’s wife found out I was pregnant and alone at 21, and offered to go to Lamaze classes with me. When the big day came, she showed up at the hospital, walking the halls beside me, squatting, breathing through contractions, holding my hand. (God bless you, Tracy, wherever you are!)

Even my accent, which had once made me self-conscious, became something the other soldiers teased me about lovingly. Instead of being a reason to exclude me, it became a reason to connect. For the first time, I felt fully accepted.

I also gained valuable experiences that tested, challenged, and shaped me into who I am today—what Steven Pressfield calls the virtues of war: discipline, loyalty, integrity, perseverance, sacrifice, selfless service.

I never glorified war (those who know me well know I'm a pacifist at heart), but I cherished the sense of purpose and unity that came from serving alongside people willing to set their differences aside for a shared mission bigger than themselves.

There's a line from Phil Knight's Shoe Dog that has always stayed with me:

"I hated war, but I loved the warrior spirit. I hated the sword, but loved the samurai."

That sums it up. And for the first time since leaving Cuba, I felt like I belonged.

With my squad during field training in Fort Carson, CO. Special shoutout to SSG Snape!

My Place in Today's America

Lately, some of those old questions have been resurfacing: Do I really belong here? Am I welcome and truly accepted?

The answer varies by day, if I’m being honest. I find myself torn between wanting to protect this nation I love and questioning what that even means. Protection, after all, can take many forms. It can mean preserving natural resources, fostering economic opportunity, making healthcare accessible, building an immigration system that’s both fair and humane, or investing in innovation for the benefit of future generations. The truth is, these are complex issues. There are no simple answers, and certainly no single right one.

Polarization thrives on oversimplification. It tells us that people and problems can be divided neatly into sides, but real life doesn't work that way. When we cling to absolutes, we stop seeing nuance. Division isn't just political; it's emotional. It wears down our empathy and our capacity for grace.

We've become conditioned to outrage because it gives us a fleeting sense of control. When people feel powerless, anger makes sense. But when outrage becomes chronic, it stops being protective and becomes corrosive. We scroll, react, argue, and consume more of the very noise that's draining us, because outrage numbs fear.

Living in that state for too long takes a toll. Our nervous systems weren't built for constant vigilance. The longer we stay in survival mode, the smaller our capacity for compassion becomes.

The kind of healing this country needs won't come from one side winning. It will come from all of us remembering that we belong to each other.

What Belonging Means to Me

Your values mean the most when they're tested… and boy, have they been tested lately. After much reflection, here's what I know:

My love for this country isn't limited to what some people in it say or do, or even to this moment in history. You can't define an entire nation by one chapter of its story. That would be like rejecting an entire faith because of its darkest period.

The cruelty and injustice we see aren't "America”; they’re human failures. But there is love and compassion all around us too. I see it in therapy sessions and beyond—in quiet acts of kindness, everyday decency, neighbors helping neighbors, communities lifting each other. So we’re not getting everything wrong.

Soaking in simple joys and the peace of belonging right where I am.

I don't have all the answers. Maybe none of us do. But I've decided that belonging isn't something I have to be granted. It's something I choose to claim. My love for this country isn't blind. You can love a country and still demand it do better. I can hold pride and disappointment in the same breath. And maybe that's the kind of patriotism we need more of: one rooted not in certainty or righteousness, but in care.

No one gets to tell me what being Latina means, or what being an American citizen means, or whether I have the right to call myself one (unless I let them). I am an American citizen. In fact, I was already American before I ever set foot in the United States. Cuba, too, is part of the Americas. I'm also a U.S. Army veteran. And while none of these identities are perfect, I wear them all with pride.

I'm with you in this, still trying to make sense of it, too. And I'm offering not a resolution, but an invitation: To notice what's real. To hold your heart open. To resist collapsing into only despair or denial. Maybe the best we can do is stay awake to our fear, our compassion, and our shared humanity.

Begin Your Own Healing Journey

If this reflection resonated with you, I'd love to continue the conversation. Follow me on LinkedIn or Threads where I regularly share insights, tips, and resources aimed at personal growth and healing. And if you're navigating your own questions of belonging, identity, or purpose, you're not alone.

At Graceful Mind Therapy, I help women explore these deeper layers of their stories, finding compassion, clarity, and balance along the way. Learn more about my background, my approach, or what led me to this work on my About Maria page.

For those seeking a safe, supportive space to work through anxiety, burnout, or life transitions, I also offer Online Therapy for Women across multiple states.

 by Maria Perdomo-Torres, LCSW-S, MHA, CFSW