The Fall Air

Fall Leaves

Something about fall always brings back a flood of memories. The air smells different—yes, even in Florida. There’s something about it that signals the holidays are coming. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it stirs something in me. A shift. My emotions change with the season.

When I went away to college, I told myself I could handle the transition. I was a military brat, after all—adaptability was supposed to be in my DNA. But I didn’t realize how much I relied on the structure of my family to feel grounded. That year, everything around me was changing. My mom remarried, my sister moved away with her boyfriend, and my relationship with my father felt distant. I was navigating a new world and completely lost in it.

That was when the depression first hit. I tried to put on a strong face, but inside I was unraveling. Eventually, I reached out for help and started counseling. That’s when I was diagnosed with seasonal depression—the kind that creeps in during specific times of the year. For me, it was fall.

Year after year, the darkness would return. I’d crave a sense of family, a feeling of belonging. More than anything, I wanted to celebrate the holidays somewhere I felt truly accepted. Instead, I often found myself curled up in my room, sleeping until the afternoon because the darkness felt safer than the light.

Over time, I learned to manage the emotional spiral. There were even a few years where the heaviness skipped me entirely. But then last year, it returned. That same aching loneliness. I’d look at people and feel tears welling up for no reason. I felt invisible—until something shifted.

I watched The Secret, and for the first time in a long while, I felt hopeful. It reminded me that happiness doesn’t come from the people who surround you—it begins with you. I realized I’d been waiting to receive love, when I already had it. I was rich in friendships, in memories, in lessons. And above all, I was never truly alone.

God has always been there—quiet, steady, and faithful. In Him, I found not just peace, but family, friendship, and purpose.

There’s no point in living life under a cloud of negativity. Everyone has their own story, their own pain. But like I always say: what shapes you isn’t just what you’ve been through—it’s how you choose to grow from it.

To Be Puerto Rican...

Growing up, I struggled with my self-image.

I was born in Germany to Puerto Rican parents—my dad, a U.S. Army soldier, was stationed there at the time. Life on military bases was filled with cultural fusion, but the Puerto Rican community stood out in its own special way. During the holidays, we had parrandas, traditional Puerto Rican caroling, complete with guitars, güiros, and tambours. My dad would sing and play guitar while the community gathered to celebrate and speak Spanish. That was my early childhood—a mix of languages, music, and a beautiful cultural blend. No one treated me differently because of how I looked. Being a military brat meant being immersed in diversity.

Then we moved to Florida.

Orlando has a huge Puerto Rican population—many with roots from the island, New York, or Chicago. But I wasn’t from any of those places. I didn’t sound like them, and I didn’t quite fit in. To some Puerto Ricans, I was “too White.” To others outside the culture, I was “too Brown.” It didn’t make sense. I felt like I was always stuck between two worlds—never quite enough for either.

It wasn’t until college that everything changed.

I decided to stop letting others define my identity. I leaned into my culture and gave myself permission to rediscover who I was. Sure, I liked reggaeton, but I wanted more than that. I wanted to know my history, speak better Spanish, and connect with my family on a deeper level. I wanted to dance salsa, merengue, and cha cha—not just for fun, but for connection.

So I got involved.

I became President of the Puerto Rican organization on campus, and in planning events, I learned more about Puerto Rico than I ever had before. I discovered the beauty of bomba y plena, the Afro-Caribbean rhythms rooted in Puerto Rico’s history. I studied the Grito de Lares, our fight for independence. I even found joy in the small things—like visiting Lares for the wildest ice cream flavors (corn, rice and beans—yes, really!).

Most importantly, I made it a goal to visit my family in Puerto Rico at least every two years. Those trips grounded me. They reminded me that culture is lived, not just inherited.

Here’s the truth:
No one gets to define who you are but you.
I’m Puerto Rican—not because of how I look, speak, or where I was raised—but because it’s in my blood, my heart, and my history. I embrace it through music, land, language, and love.

All cultures are beautiful.
But this one—my culture—is mine. And no one can take that away from me.