Visiting El Salvador with My Mami Helped Me Connect with my Roots

Earlier this year, my mom finally said what I had been waiting to hear: she wanted to visit El Salvador. It had been 34 years since she last set foot in her home country. Growing up, I had always heard stories about how dangerous it was and how hard life had been. My mom grew up in a rural area, and her entire family immigrated to the United States in 1981 to survive. El Salvador was in the midst of a violent civil war, and my mother’s life was at risk—leaving by any means necessary was her only option. Despite the danger, I had always wanted to visit, to reconnect with the part of my heritage that often felt just out of reach.

She returned to El Salvador once, in 1990, after immigrating to the U.S., already a wife and mother, bringing me along as a toddler. During that visit, she spent most of her time indoors, too afraid to venture outside because of the active violence. She vividly remembers the sound of gunfire and shootings happening just outside her home. It was heartbreaking for her because, despite the fear, she had always loved her home country. She would often tell me stories about how beautiful El Salvador was, the vibrant landscapes, the warmth of the people, and the deep sense of connection she felt to her own mother there. But after that terrifying experience in 1990, the thought of returning seemed impossible, it was simply too terrifying to relive.

Yet, her love for El Salvador never faded. And now, after years of fear, things have changed. With the current government’s crackdown on gang violence and a restored sense of safety, my mom finally felt it was safe to return. This time, it wasn’t just about visiting; it was about reconnecting with the country she still held close to her heart and with the memories of my grandmother.

As first-gen, we’re often balancing the weight of two worlds—our family’s past and the opportunities that come with our present. When my mom finally decided it was time to return, I realized how much of my cultural understanding had been shaped by the stories I was told. This trip wasn’t just about visiting—it was about reclaiming a part of me that had always felt like a question mark.

Could I, raised in the U.S., truly connect with a land I had never known? We planned the trip for July, and while I was excited, I also felt nervous. This was the place my mom had fled to survive—how much had really changed? And what would it be like for me to experience it for the first time? When the day finally came, I felt an unexpected sense of relief. We arrived early in the morning, and as soon as we stepped out into the humid air, a sense of comfort washed over me. It was as if the land itself welcomed me, like a warm hug from my grandmother. It felt familiar, as if my soul had recognized it before I did. I didn’t know it at the time, but this trip would challenge my perception of my identity, deepen my understanding of my heritage, and push me to reflect on my privileges as a first-gen. Despite the connection I felt upon arrival, there were moments when I felt out of place—like when we stopped to eat pupusas.

Growing up, I had always eaten them with a fork and knife, but here, everyone used their hands. It was such a small thing, but it caught me off guard. At that moment, I wondered, Am I Latina enough if I didn’t know this? I realized that much of my cultural identity had been shaped by my U.S. experience—a blend of traditions passed down by my family and those adapted to a different context. As first-gens, we often struggle with this sense of “in-betweenness.” Are we de aquí or de allá? For me, this trip reminded me that my cultural identity isn’t static—it’s constantly evolving. Just because my experience of being Latina in the U.S. doesn’t mirror my family’s experience in El Salvador doesn’t make it any less valid. Being first-gen means carrying the legacy of our ancestors while forging our own path, and there’s no single way to express that.

Throughout the trip, I reflected on the sacrifices my mom made so I could have the life I do now. Hearing stories from family about how hard life was in El Salvador— like my grandmother’s annual pilgrimage to La Parroquia Nuestra Señora de Los Dolores, a journey of faith to honor La Señora de Dolores on her celebration day—highlighted how much we carry from our ancestors. The Virgin de los Dolores was my family’s patron saint, and my grandmother would make the pilgrimage either to celebrate her or to give thanks for answered prayers. The journey, which used to take my grandmother and her children days to complete on foot, took us only a few hours by car. It was humbling to realize the depth of their struggles and their unwavering faith.

One moment that truly made me feel at home came unexpectedly. I wasn’t feeling well, a bit sick with low energy, while the heat and mosquitoes were relentless. Despite that, I felt so safe, so comforted, being surrounded by family and in my ancestors’ land. Lying on a swinging hammock, I let myself rest. At that moment, I didn’t worry about what I had to do or where I had to be. I was simply present, resting and recovering. It was in that stillness, allowing myself to just be, that I felt most at home.

Being first-gen means constantly comparing our lives to those of our families back home. What we see as “hard” in the U.S., our families back home might see as a luxury. My uncle reminded me that I grew up with a “cuchara de oro,” or golden spoon, compared to my mom’s childhood, where running water or electricity were often a rarity. While I had never seen my upbringing as privileged—growing up in a one-bedroom apartment where personal space was scarce, and parentification was a reality—reflecting on it through the lens of my family’s history made me realize how different our experiences really were. And yet, even in that small apartment, my parents provided me with opportunities they never had. They worked tirelessly to ensure we had food on the table and that my brother and I had the chance to dream beyond survival.

Being first-gen means growing up straddling two realities: your family’s survival mode and your own pursuit of something more. On this trip, I realized that while I’ve always taken pride in my roots, standing on that soil made me understand the depth of that pride in a new way. As first-gens, we often feel like we’re living in the shadow of our parents’ sacrifices, constantly trying to make their efforts worth it. But this trip reminded me that we’re not just carrying their legacy—we’re expanding it. We are the product of their resilience, but we also have the chance to build something new.

My biggest takeaway from this experience? Make time to explore your heritage—whether it’s by visiting meaningful places or diving deeper into your family’s history. Even if travel isn’t an option, reconnecting with your roots in other ways—like listening to your elders’ stories or embracing cultural traditions—can create a profound sense of belonging. You might be surprised by the connections you uncover. Reconnecting with my roots in El Salvador reminded me that we don’t have to choose between honoring our heritage and pursuing our dreams. We can embrace both. Sí se puede.