Identity Intersections: Hispanic Heritage Month, Identity Crisis, & Imposter Syndrome
Living in Color: Through my Latinadad and Mental Health
Living in Color: I chose that name for my blog because I like colorful things- like sunsets- and because my life gradually got more vivid as I came out of my depression and started healing from complex trauma (C-PTSD).
It’s no secret I’ve changed through my mental health journey. I’m not the same person I was three years ago yet I’m more myself now than before. Since it’s the last day of National Hispanic Heritage Month, I figured now’s a good time to reflect on identity (not that I’m ever reflecting on that *cue eye roll*).
Discovering My Latina Identity Through My Mental Health Trauma Journey
Identity. That’s a tricky word, right? It’s something we all get to shape but don’t always get to define for ourselves. Growing up as a first-gen Nicaraguan-American, my identity felt more like a messy puzzle than a clear picture. And speaking of puzzles, while I like noticing patterns and coincidences, don’t ask me to solve a Rubik’s cube—spatial patterns are not my forte. But here’s a fun coincidence: the Nicaraguan flag has a rainbow on it. It’s small, but it’s there. Kinda like how I always felt—small, but there.
Navigating Childhood with C-PTSD: The Roots of My Mental Health Struggles
I love seeing that we are having more of these awareness days and months. But it gives me flashbacks to my younger days where I didn’t feel seen, figuratively, of course
My first small memory takes place in third grade. We were sharing holiday traditions, and as I sat criss-cross applesauce on the cold linoleum floor, I realized words like “maduro,” “nacatamales” and “Christmas on the 24th” were nowhere to be found. All of a sudden, I felt embarassed. And for the first time, I became aware of being the minority as a Nicaraguan-American. Hijole!
Changing cities and fleeting years did not change the lack of representation and fleeting glances of confusion as I entered these spaces. The feeling of small only got bigger.
Just like my name, I hated to explain or educate people on what my experiences were and what they meant. “What’s that?” and “That’s weird” gave me the cringe. So I gave in. I accepted that no one would know where “Nick-A-Ra-GUA” was and learned to answer to “Latisha.” It was easier to slip into my MO of wallflower.
The Intersection of Mental Health and the Latinx Experience
Growing up in a sheltered environment meant my world was centered around home. At home, everything was uncensored to the point of oversharing. Enter parentification, an experience that many of us first-generation Latinos might share. But also enter naiveness and lack of street smarts.
Translated, I had different codes inside and outside of the house. At home, I needed to be responsible, independent, and an ambitious example. At school, I was to be obedient, quiet, and conformist. It was a paradox but both required hard work, lack of boundaries, and above all, perfection.
Perfectionism has a lot to do with control and appearances. Sometimes it’s both: the control over how we appear to everyone else. Much of my upbringing was about keeping what little control I was given. And sometimes that meant trying to control the narrative others put on me as a Latina.
So as an underrepresented minority in elementary school and 6th grade, I assimilated without knowing. I tried to keep up appearances, but microaggressions made it hard to ignore the fact that the system was stacked against me. Like when a parent at open house accused my parents point-blank of doing my school report, or when my sixth-grade math teacher refused to give me the A I earned, saying I wouldn’t get into a good university anyway. My mom’s response was “Esta bien. Cuando vayas, esto no va importar” (“It’s okay. When you do make it, this won’t matter”). My dad’s reply? “Que se jodan” (I’ll let you fill in the curse word here).
I could write a book of these stories but the point here is we never stood up for ourselves. Yes, there was anger but there was also shame and some fear. The last thing we needed was to give people an excuse to justify their bias of us. When it happens though, it hurts, and each comment becomes a new brick in the seemingly-ever-growing limiting wall that closes in the types of possibilities we believe ourselves to be worth of. If we let it.
I always found myself balancing between dad’s gut-instinct, reactionary anger and mom’s strategic, slow burn resilence that fuels ambitous action. It’s a tricky combo, amongst the expectations we juggle. In having read over 9,000 freshman applications over my career, I noticed our Latino culture demand first-born daughters to perfect two personas: the obedient helper and the barrier-breaker. Somewhere in that juggling act, the “shoulds” of who we should be drown out the “coulds.”
We are born into an identity crisis. Always wanting to be more but never feeling like it’s ours to dream for. Always stepping on metaphorical tippy toes.
Systematic Barriers Impacting Identity and Imposter Syndrome
I helped my mom study for her citizenship test while other kids’ parents were chaperoning field trips. Growing up, I knew my mom fled Nicaragua because of the Sandinistas (see: the Nicaraguan Revolution or just ask ChatGPT), but it took awhile to see how her undocumented status made some people see her as “less than.” I viewed her journey with gratitude and awe; others saw it as an audacity. How the desire to pursue the bare minimum of survival in the land of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” is seen as audacity is beyond ironic.
In keeping to myself, staying in my “lane”, and letting people make assumptions for me, I gaslit myself into thinking this survival mechanism was a way to prove the haters wrong. Because in conforming to what they were giving, I appeared to be following the “equal” American dream: work hard and earn hard. But let’s be real—the game is rigged, designed to keep us out.
There’s been some pushback on imposter syndrome lately. Some argue it’s not an individual’s problem but a systemic one. I can get behind that. But regardless of its origin story, its impact is still there.
Reflection on the Intergenerational Mental Health Journey
Let’s focus on “first world problems.” I have a somewhat scandalous (at first glance) amendment: mental health is a first-world problem. Don’t cancel me just yet. First let me clarify, I am NOT dismissing that mental health impacts everyone. What I’m trying to say is that mental health, particularly in our Latin immigrant communities, feels like a first-world problem. Not because it doesn’t matter, but because it’s something our parents didn’t have the luxury to prioritize. Who has the time to reframe from surviving to healing? Who can think of the next couple of future generations? It’s like generational wealth, if you’re always busy paying for current bills, when do you have the time, money, and resources to even learn how to invest your money so that it works for you in the now? Healing is taxing.
Their focus was survival, not healing. So, the responsibility of healing—of breaking intergenerational cycles—seemingly falls on us. We have a long road ahead of us. It’s exhausting but it has to start with us.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be a therapist. That day is not today. Which means, this post is only meant to touch on the intricacies of intergenerational mental health spider webs, not solve them. Food for thought, if you will. But this topic deserves several books.
Celebrating National Hispanic Heritage Month as a Latina with C-PTSD
It’s taken time, but I’ve come to love who I am—a Latina with the privilege of facing these hurdles out in the open. I love hearing the underdog stories of my brave Latin folks. We’re resilient, passionate about taking care of our own, but we also need to take care of ourselves to ensure the next generation thrives. We’re becoming more visible, gaining representation, but the system still isn’t built for us. We’ll feel like imposters until we create more spaces for ourselves. Tenemos más trabajo, mi gente, but we are more than capable. Happy National Hispanic Heritage Month year (all day, err-day *wink*) to all my:
First-gen Latin peers reclaiming their identities and dreams through mental health journeys
Immigrant parents who brought us closer to that systematic starting line to put us in the race
Central Americans who love our Mexican compatriotas but also take a lot of pride in our small country’s flags and crazy slang words
Nica chavalas who have always been called too loud and vivacious for craving an overflowing life
Para Adelante!
Any thoughts on being brown and navigating mental health? Give it to me straight.
P.S. Check out my guest appearance on the Latinas with Masters podcast!
