My name is Isabel. I was born in Monterrey, Mexico, but I grew up between two worlds: my home country and the United States, where my family immigrated when I was nine. I’m 19 now. My story isn’t one of smooth migration or easy integration. It’s a story of struggle, a quest for recognition, and, above all, transformation.

When we arrived in the U.S., I immediately understood that I was different. Not just because of my accent or my skin color, but because no one seemed to really want to hear what I had to say. At school, teachers looked at me as if I were a stranger who simply had to adapt, stay quiet, and almost disappear. I was often told to be discreet, not to talk about what was going on at home, not to “make waves.”

But this voice soft as it may be refused to be silenced. It carried stories, dreams, and injustices. And I quickly realized that I couldn’t keep that inside. Because my silence would only reinforce their invisibility.

I began getting involved in student organizations, advocating for migrant rights especially migrant women’s rights. But even in those spaces, I had to fight to be taken seriously. In some feminist circles, being Latina and a migrant still meant carrying a stigma, a weight I was expected to overcome silently.

What I’ve learned is that feminism cannot be universal unless it includes all our voices and all our experiences. That in order to fight racism, sexism, and exploitation, we must first build ourselves up becoming strong leaders, powerful women, even when the world tries to push us to the margins.

This process hasn’t been easy. There were sleepless nights filled with doubt, wondering if it was all worth it. Moments when I almost gave up, convinced my story wouldn’t matter to anyone, that my fight wouldn’t be seen. But every time, I reminded myself why I was doing this.

Because I don’t want girls like me daughters of migrants, girls from forgotten neighborhoods to feel invisible or unworthy of being heard. Because I want people to stop thinking of migration as just numbers, and start recognizing the identities, emotions, and struggles it carries.

Today, I work to create spaces where our voices can echo. Feminist collectives led by migrant women, where stories are honored and diversity is celebrated. I help train young women to speak up, to defend their rights without apology, and to be proud of their roots.

I don’t claim to know everything. But I do know one thing: our individual struggles feed a collective movement. And it’s in that movement that our power lies.

Every day, I keep walking sometimes angry, often hopeful, always determined. Because change doesn’t come from staying silent. It comes from taking up space, speaking loudly and clearly, and refusing to be erased.