The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series: To Billy Jean

 

To Billy Jean

I could not have written this book without talking about Billy Jean. She was beautiful—inside and out—the kind of beauty that wasn’t just seen but felt, radiating warmth and love to everyone who crossed her path.

The moment I met Billy Jean was the summer of 2005, a year of significant changes for me. I had just moved from Tampa, Florida, to Alabama, eager to start fresh and searching for a church home. Something led me to the First Church of the Nazarene in Dothan, Alabama. I still don’t know if it was chance, divine intervention, or both. She was one of the first people to greet me, and from that moment, it felt like I had found something I didn’t even know I was missing—a mother.

Our bond was instant and undeniable. From that first meeting, Billy Jean became one of the most important people in my life. We were inseparable. She welcomed me into her life, home, and family like I was one of her own. I joined her family for countless meals, gatherings, and momentous occasions. Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas mornings were spent surrounded by the love she so effortlessly cultivated. I would spend entire weekends at her home, where her beloved husband, whom I affectionately called “Mr. Billy,” would greet me like I was their daughter.

Billy Jean didn’t just open her home to me; she opened her heart. During some of the most challenging times of my life, when I needed a place to stay or simply a refuge from life’s storms, I knew I could turn to her. Her door was always open, and her embrace was always welcoming. Being with her felt like being at home.

She was my cheerleader and encourager, constantly present when I needed it most. Billie Jean made you feel like you mattered and were worth fighting for and loving. She saw potential in me even when I doubted myself. She wasn’t just a friend or mother figure but a guiding light.

Billy Jean celebrated my milestones as if they were her own. She organized my wedding reception, ensuring every detail was perfect. She also took charge of my graduation party, making me feel honored and loved in ways I will never forget. She had a gift for making every moment special, every memory unforgettable.

She passed away recently at the age of 85. She wasn’t sick; it was just her time to go home to the Lord after a brief illness. That was Billie Jean—always ready, always faithful. Her passing was peaceful, just as her life had been, filled with grace and love.

If I regret one thing, it’s not visiting her sooner, as I had promised. Life distracts us from what’s truly important, and I let time slip away. But even in her absence, I take comfort in knowing that we always stayed in touch, and she always knew how much she meant to me.

Billy Jean was a unique soul, the kind of person you only meet once in a lifetime if you’re lucky. She was proof that angels walk among us. Writing about her here is a tribute and a thank-you to the woman who changed my life in ways I’m still discovering.

Thank you, Billy Jean, for your love, kindness, and unwavering belief in me. Thank you for being a second mother when I needed one most. You will always hold a piece of my heart, and your memory will live on in every act of kindness I pass on to others.

 

The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 10

 

Chapter 10

“The struggle of life is one of our greatest blessings. It makes us patient, sensitive, and Godlike. It teaches us that although the world is a whole of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it. -Helen Keller

The struggles

Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve faced bullying more than once in my life? The first time was in second grade when a fellow student, for reasons I’ll never understand, tried to throw me off the balcony. It was a terrifying experience, but my mother didn’t hesitate; she immediately transferred me to a different school. I was so grateful for her quick decision, knowing she potentially saved me from becoming another tragic statistic. My mom wasn’t one to play around with when it came to protecting me, and I applaud her.

Years later, I encountered another bully while working as a receptionist. A girl in the office seemed to take pleasure in trying to embarrass me in front of others. However, that situation didn’t last long because I didn’t let it define me. I moved ahead in my career, while she probably remained stuck in the same place. The point is I inherited my mother’s generous heart, and I strive to live by her example. But I’ve noticed that people often mistake my kindness for weakness. They don’t realize that kindness is a strength I carry with me in all my interactions.

Learning to stand against injustice has been a crucial part of my journey. One of my greatest fears has always been the possibility of not being fair to others in my efforts to defend myself. I never want to cross the line into anger or rage, so I often choose silence. Some might see my silence as a sign that they can walk all over me, but that’s far from the truth. I listen and take in what’s happening, but I try not to let things spiral out of control. Ultimately, I believe good always prevails, even if it takes time.

There was a time when I was labeled an overachiever and told to tone it down because I was making other workers look bad. This experience taught me the importance of balance and understanding professionally. For instance, in my free time, I would clean some of the machines at the stress lab I used to work at, not because it was required but because I wanted to contribute to the team and maintain a positive work environment. My intention was always to help, not to outshine anyone.

These experiences have shaped me into the person I am today, someone who values kindness and understands the importance of standing up for oneself. I’ve learned to navigate the fine line between being generous and not letting others take advantage of me. Through it all, I’ve come to believe that while some may misunderstand kindness, it remains one of the most powerful tools to make the world a better place.

Adapting to a new culture and society was an incredibly challenging experience for me. I often felt like I was navigating a landscape where others found accepting me for who I was difficult. While some people could see and appreciate my genuine nature, others seemed confused by it, almost as if they thought there was something unusual or even suspicious about my kindness. My motives were being questioned simply because I was being myself—a naturally genuine and kind person.

This misunderstanding was particularly frustrating because, in my culture, being direct and honest is accepted and expected. However, my straightforwardness was sometimes perceived as blunt or overly assertive in this new environment. It starkly contrasted with the more subtle and reserved ways of communication I was now encountering. The irony was not lost when people began to compare my communication style to that of a New Yorker, known for their directness and no-nonsense attitude. This comparison highlighted how different my cultural background was from the one I was trying to integrate into.

Over time, I learned to modulate my approach, softening my directness while still holding onto the essence of who I am. I realized that while I could adapt to new social norms, I didn't have to lose my authenticity in the process. This adaptation journey wasn't just about fitting in; it was about finding a balance between staying true to myself and respecting the nuances of the culture I was becoming a part of.

I'm not one to shy away from crowds, but if given the chance, I would take the lead in bringing a "party" to life. I've often found myself in situations where the atmosphere was supposed to be celebratory, but it felt more like a gathering needing some serious energy. The question always popped into my head: Where's the music?

The answer to a dull gathering is simple—give me a speaker, a microphone, and some Wi-Fi, and I can transform the vibe completely. With those tools in hand, I can set the stage for an impromptu karaoke session. And, of course, I'd be the first to grab the mic and start singing. There's something about music that has the power to break the ice and bring people together, and once I start, it usually doesn't take long for others to join in. Little by little, the room is filled with laughter, singing, and a shared sense of joy.

It's not just about performing; it's about creating an atmosphere where everyone feels free to let loose and have fun. I enjoy seeing people relax, shake off their inhibitions, and truly engage in the moment. In those instances, it's like I'm not just animating a party—I'm helping to create memories that people will look back on with a smile.

For me, a celebration isn't just about being present; it's about making the most of every moment, and if I can help others do that, then the event becomes something extraordinary. Whether it's a quiet dinner that turns into a lively karaoke night or a planned event that needs a little spark to get going, I'm always ready to bring the energy and ensure that everyone leaves with a sense of having indeed celebrated.

Do you think I've encountered jealousy because of my enthusiasm and willingness to jump in and lead? Absolutely. The whispers and side glances are unmistakable. "Who does she think she is?" they seem to wonder. "Isn't she the new girl on the block?" Some people can't wrap their heads around the idea of someone new, like me, stepping up confidently, especially in social situations where others might hesitate. They think, "I wouldn't do that even if I had been here for a decade."

But that's the thing—I've never let being new or different hold me back. I take it if I see an opportunity to bring energy to a room, to spark joy or participation. That's just who I am. I have the courage and the power to get involved and make things happen; sometimes, that ruffles feathers. I can sense the negative vibes, hear the muttered comments, and feel the resistance from those who perhaps wish they had the same drive but, for whatever reason, choose to hold back.

It's important to note that only some of the feedback I receive is negative. Many people appreciate my efforts and enjoy the lively atmosphere I help create. However, some of the negative comments stand out. They can sting sometimes, especially from people who don't know or understand my origin; however, I choose to keep going, and that's my secret!

So, what do I do? I stay true to myself. I keep being genuine and bringing my whole self to whatever I do. As long as I'm not crossing any legal, moral, or ethical lines, I'm comfortable with who I am and my choices. I believe in authenticity, in showing up as the best version of myself, and I'm not about to let anyone's jealousy or criticism change that. Ultimately, I'd rather be true to who I am, even if it means facing a bit of negativity, than hold back and wonder what could have been. Now you know why I titled this book The Courage to Succeed, to me, it takes courage to succeed in life. 

The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 9

 

Chapter 9

“When you are wronged repeatedly, the worst thing you can do is continue taking it--fight back!” ― Donald Trump.

Fight, Fight, Fight…

Success is a courageous journey, a tapestry woven with threads of ambition, resilience, and an unwavering commitment to growth. It's not merely about reaching a goal but about daring to step into the unknown, confronting challenges head-on, and persisting despite the inevitable setbacks. The courage to embrace the discomfort of pushing beyond what's familiar, risk failure, and learn from mistakes fuels resilience, inspires growth, and motivates us to keep going, no matter how tough the road becomes. This courage is within all of us, waiting to be ignited and nurtured.

Within me burns a fire that ignites whenever someone tells me, "No." It's not just a matter of being stubborn—though I admit that stubbornness plays a role. It's about refusing to let others define my limits, to be boxed in by someone else's perception of what is possible. This refusal and determination to push beyond boundaries have been a powerful force driving many of my successes, and I believe it can also drive yours. You can define your limits, refuse to be confined by others' restrictions, and transform barriers into stepping stones.

One defining example of this determination was my journey to secure preceptors for my clinical nurse practitioner training. Financial constraints had already forced me to give up my dream of becoming a physician in Colombia—a dream I still hold close to my heart. For many, this might have been the end of the road, but it was merely a detour for me. Some family members didn’t take my ambitions seriously, brushing off my goals as unattainable or impractical. But that lack of support didn’t deter me. My passion burned brighter than any obstacle. I knew I had to find a way around every barrier, and my determination kept me moving forward. Along the way, I was fortunate to find mentors and supportive figures who believed in me and helped me navigate the challenges, but my inner resolve made me persevere.

I'll never forget a comment made during my graduation party after earning my BSN in nursing. Someone remarked, "You’re so smart. Why didn’t you go to medical school?" Though likely well-intentioned, this question revealed a common misunderstanding about the unique value of nursing. Nursing is not a fallback or a compromise; it is a calling, a profession built on compassion, critical thinking, and a deep dedication to patient care. My decision to pursue nursing was deliberate. It was not about settling for less but about finding a path where I could make a tangible difference in people’s lives.

For years, I wrestled with internal doubts. Could I truly make a difference as a nurse? Was I enough? Sometimes, patients questioned my abilities simply because I wasn’t a doctor. One patient sticks out in my memory. She repeatedly asked, “Where is the doctor?” Despite explaining that I was the provider responsible for her care, she hesitated, uncertain about my role. It wasn’t until the end of the visit, after receiving thorough care, that she finally trusted me. Such moments are bittersweet—they challenge me to prove my worth but also reaffirm the unique impact of my work.

These challenges were magnified as an immigrant from Colombia with English as my second language. Every misstep or misunderstanding felt like an additional hurdle, but I refused to let them hold me back. I’ve never had the luxury of dwelling on what others said I couldn’t do because of my background or circumstances. I’ve always believed that determination can overcome any obstacle. With relentless optimism, I set goals and pursue them with everything I’ve got, no matter how daunting the odds.

Life is unpredictable, and obstacles are inevitable, but that doesn’t mean the journey ends. Even if I don’t reach every goal, effort and perseverance matter. Just showing up, putting in the work, and giving me half the battle won. Too often, those who don’t achieve their dreams are the ones who never even try. I’ve always been determined to be the one who tries, who fights, who pushes through, no matter what.

Success isn’t about perfection or an unbroken string of victories. It’s about the strength to rise after every fall, the courage to continue despite uncertainty, and the belief that even setbacks are steps forward in disguise. Each of us has the power to light that fire within, to pursue our passions with unwavering determination, and to define success on our terms. With relentless optimism, I face each day with hope and positivity, knowing that the journey, with all its twists and turns, is what truly shapes us.

The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 8

 

Chapter 8

 “Children are God’s love gift; they are heaven’s generous reward.” Psalm 127:3.

Motherhood

During my first pregnancy, I faced an overwhelming challenge with hyperemesis gravidarum, which made it impossible to keep down solid foods. The relentless vomiting, up to nine times a day, took a toll on my body and spirit. Despite this, I held onto the hope that things might improve. Then came the day of my first fetal sonogram, and the world as I knew it began to unravel.

Around week 26, The sonogram revealed something troubling—the ventricles in my baby's brain were enlarged. The doctors couldn't pinpoint the cause and asked me to return weekly for monitoring. As the weeks passed, the ventricles continued to grow, leading to a suspected diagnosis of hydrocephalus. The fetal-maternal doctor began to discuss early delivery and the possibility of placing a shunt if the condition worsened.

By week 31, the situation had become increasingly dire. The decision was made to induce labor at 37 weeks and four days. Less than 24 hours after giving birth, a pediatrician came into my room, speaking as though I had already been briefed. His words blurred together, but the one phrase that stood out” The baby is missing a part of the brain"—plunged me into darkness. My world felt like it was crumbling around me.

The term "corpus callosum" was not foreign to me; however, I quickly learned that it was the part of the brain that was missing. The doctors tried to prepare us for what might lie ahead—difficulty swallowing, significant learning disabilities, and countless other potential issues. It was bleak, but I refused to let that define our future. I knew we had to be proactive to fight for our child's development and well-being.

Determined to give him the best start possible, I immersed myself in early education and brain development research. I enrolled him in an early education program and asked the director to support and encourage him in every way possible. Genetic testing confirmed that the only anomaly was the absence of the corpus callosum. We began physical and occupational therapy, adopting a "wait and see" approach.

As he grew, I enrolled him in Taekwondo, and despite a few motor skill delays, he flourished. Today, at nine years old, no one would ever guess he is missing the corpus callosum. He is thriving, a testament to the power of early intervention and relentless hope. But the journey wasn't easy, and it took us five years to consider having another child.

The decision to have a second child came in 2020, during the height of the pandemic. My severe hyperemesis gravidarum returned with a vengeance, and after 11 weeks, I found myself hospitalized for steroid treatment to control relentless vomiting. I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window, understanding why some women may choose not to have more children. The misery was unbearable, yet I was determined to endure.

Around 20 weeks into the pregnancy, I started my first job as a nurse practitioner, making house calls. At 28 weeks, while visiting an elderly couple in San Angelo, Texas, I experienced a terrifying accident. The chair I sat on gave way, and I hit my head on the edge of a brick fireplace. Blood poured from the wound, but I managed to call 911. Thankfully, I didn't lose consciousness, and the baby was okay, but I required nine staples to close the laceration.

The incident left me shaken and fearful, and I began to slip into depression. I decided to take early maternity leave to recover, but as the weeks passed, I grew weaker. By week 32 or 33, I could barely move from bed to chair. It was then that I asked my husband to take me to the hospital, where they discovered I was in a pre-eclamptic state. I was hospitalized again, and by week 34, the decision was made to induce labor. My condition was deteriorating, and it was no longer safe to continue the pregnancy.

We asked a friend to watch our older son, but eventually, my sister-in-law came down from Chicago to take him with her. Our beautiful baby girl was born, but my recovery was slow and painful. I was delirious from the magnesium drips, and the hospital was so overcrowded that I was placed in a small room that felt more like a closet. My baby girl struggled to maintain her oxygen levels and was transferred to a NICU in Austin, Texas. My husband went with her while I remained behind, still unwell and overwhelmed by the isolation.

The separation from my family was agonizing. My older son was in Chicago, my husband and newborn daughter were in Austin, and I was alone in the hospital in Round Rock, struggling to recover. It was a dark and lonely time, but I finally managed to visit my daughter after a week, and she was ready to come home.

Just as we began to settle into life with our newborn, a massive winter storm hit. We were trapped inside our home with no electricity, no water, and no phone service. The temperature inside the house dropped to 60 degrees, and we knew we had to leave. I found an old phone with service from a different carrier and called a friend who lived across town. She invited us to stay with her, and a journey that should have taken eight minutes took an hour due to the snow. We camped at her home for five days, along with four other families and our premature newborn. We were fortunate to make it through, but the experience left its mark on all of us.

Later, my son's teacher called, concerned about his behavior. He would cry whenever it rained, looking out the window and saying, "My mom and dad aren't coming." The trauma from those days when we suddenly went to the hospital and were separated from him had left a deep impression. The stormy weather and the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic only exacerbated his fears.

This chapter of our lives was filled with challenges, but we faced them together as a family. It was a period of immense growth, resilience, and learning. And through it all, we discovered the strength to keep moving forward, no matter how difficult the path.

 

The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 7

 

Chapter 7

“My consciousness of belonging to the invisible community of those who strive for truth, beauty, and justice has preserved me from feeling isolated”. — Albert Einstein

Belonging, Not Fitting

I no longer fit there, but I didn't fully belong here either, so I felt like I was in limbo. That's exactly how I felt. Thankfully, as the years have passed, I've gradually discovered more about myself here than I ever did back there. Speaking out fervently against injustice and what's considered normal but shouldn't become my defining stance. For the longest time, I've refused to accept certain things, like the so-called everyday occurrences that persist in my birth country. I continue to speak out against violence toward children and women; just because it's common doesn't mean it should be accepted. Incivility and entitled attitudes or cultures are not normal and should not be normalized.

There was the Florida teacher who couldn't believe I didn't know what the northern lights were (the irony). Then there were the jokes: as a receptionist, I asked a customer for his last name. He replied, "English." I repeated, "Sir, may I have your last name?" He continued, "English." Finally, I said, "Am I speaking French to you or what?" He responded, "No, my last name is English!"

Once, while paying at a cashier register, the woman asked where I was from, complimenting my beautiful olive skin tone. I said, "Colombia," and she replied, "Oh, South Carolina?" Another woman in line said, "Girl, don't you know where Columbia is? Is that country next to Cuba?" I responded, "Surely it is." After that, I came up with a quirky joke. When people ask where I'm from, I say, "Do you want to know? Ok, I am from the deep-deep south." They inevitably ask, "South Carolina?" I say, "Nope, South America." Embracing my Colombian identity, I found joy in educating others about my culture and heritage, turning these encounters into opportunities for cultural exchange.

Another time, I was called into the boss's office because of complaints that I talked too much about Colombia and smiled too much. My immediate supervisor clearly couldn't stand me. She was consistently critical, making remarks like, "If you're so proud to be Colombian, what are you doing up here?" and "Why are you always smiling?" Or the classic: "Hey, did you pick up the mail yet? The mail doesn't arrive on a donkey here."

But life continued, and I kept doing what I knew best, looking forward and moving one step closer to my goals. My English could have been better then, and my accent gave me away. Sometimes, people would look at me and ask, "So, what part of Mexico are you from?" From the older guy who told me I didn't look like I had finished third grade to those who, upon learning I came from Colombia, asked if I brought any coca; by that, I mean cocaine, not the soda drink or those who immediately assumed I was either Mexican or Indian. There's nothing wrong with being Mexican or Indian; I am Colombian. But I didn't let these stereotypes define me. I continued to embrace my Colombian identity, dispelling these misconceptions with every interaction.

By then, it was a thing: being Colombian somehow equaled Pablo Escobar. Colombia equals one of the best coffees in the world, the most beautiful roses, and why not, very talented people?

I'll never forget the summer of 2009, when I was unexpectedly invited to speak at a Bar Association meeting at the prestigious Ambassador Hotel in Chicago, famously associated with the Kennedys. This was not something I had actively pursued; instead, it came about through the efforts of Mr. H.T., a friend of my friend Mike O'Malley. Mr. H.T. had heard about me—a newcomer, an immigrant striving to make her mark—and was intrigued by my unique journey. He felt that my story was one that needed to be shared, and thus, he extended the invitation for me to speak at the meeting.

Despite the brevity of the presentation, just five minutes—it was a momentous occasion for me. It wasn't just about the words I spoke, but the overwhelming sense of affirmation I received. Standing there, sharing my journey and experiences, was a powerful testament to my progress and a source of immense pride. It reaffirmed my belief that I was on the right path, making strides in a new world that was both daunting and promising.

My sense of identity is deeply rooted in my origins but goes beyond nationality. While I've always acknowledged my Colombian heritage, it has significantly shaped my values, beliefs, and perspectives. I have never allowed it to be the sole definition of who I am. My identity encompasses more than my place of birth; it reflects my broader humanity and global citizenship. I view myself as a person, a human, a member of a worldwide community, and someone who can navigate both the most affluent and the most impoverished neighborhoods with equal ease and respect.

This perspective allows me to not only embrace the richness of my background but also to engage with the world in a broader context. It's about seeing myself not just through the lens of where I come from but as part of a larger, interconnected world. This mindset enables me to walk confidently in diverse spaces, celebrating my roots while contributing to and learning from the global community, and rejoicing in the beauty of cultural diversity.

The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 6

 

Chapter 6

"The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today."
– Franklin D. Roosevelt

Career Forming

I was five years old when I decided in my young mind that I would become a physician. After finishing high school in 1999, I began studying biology in college at "La Universidad de Sucre" for one semester in 2000. but I had to move to Barranquilla, a coastal city in the north of Colombia, about four hours from my hometown. I went to live with my grandma and fought for a spot in the school of medicine. However, it was a private institution, and I didn't have the money to pay for it. With no family members to cosign a student loan, I was stuck. The only public university in the area did not offer medicine, so I patiently waited until January 2001 to start my first year of med school. I had everything but the money for tuition and family support. It was a tough time in my life when I had to withdraw from school, not from lack of desire or motivation but because of other issues going on at the time. My grandmother continuously blamed me for my mother's death; it was excruciating.

One day, in class and with tears in my eyes, I resolved to leave. Somehow, I learned about a nearby martial arts school. I went there, spoke with the school manager, and told him my story. He said, "I have a small room here where you can stay. All I ask is that you pay your tuition and become a black belt one day," which I did. I asked him how long it would take to become a black belt. He said, "If you practice every day, you could easily do it in one year." Little did he know, I immediately set that goal in my mind. So, I began to work towards it. I moved to the martial arts school and practiced daily, including Sundays.

Towards the end of the year, I registered for the conference to become a black belt in a different city in the Middle East part of Colombia. Despite my readiness, the instructor denied me the chance to obtain the black belt. He tried to persuade me to instead pay the exam fees for another female student who, according to him, was much more ready than I was but didn't have the resources. I think that was the first time I felt socialism was very much alive. In other words, I would pay for someone else's opportunity to advance because, according to someone, I didn't deserve it.

I knew how hard I had worked. I also realized that the instructor needed more time to prepare me to advance at such a fast pace. Well, he did not know me. The good news was that I obtained permission from the primary master, so I went. My instructor, who was of a much lower rank than the master, had a big problem with me not following his order to not go for the big exam and gave me an ultimatum: "If you go, you must move out of the school. Once you are back, you will no longer come here." I accepted the challenge. Before that, I met Ana Lucia, another fellow student who knew my struggles. She would prepare a fruit juice packed with protein every morning and bring it to me, knowing that I had limited resources for food, especially towards the end of the year, as my instructor wasn't making life any easier for me. As we used to call her, Ana Lu spoke with her parents, and they asked me to move in with them.

I went to the big conference and achieved my goal: I became a black belt in Shaolin Fa-Men-Chuan (Kung-Fu) in December morning of the year 2001. After that, I continued to assist in my practices, but later, my goals for my college education took place.

The opportunity to come to the U.S. presented itself, and while I'll save the details of my immigration story for another time, I can assure you it was entirely legal. I arrived in the U.S. on April 4, 2004—a day I consider my day of freedom! Did I feel like kissing the ground when I arrived? You bet I did!

I went from waiting to get my residency and work permit to driving a car by just getting in and doing it—because how difficult could it be, right? Once I secured my work permit and residency, I could finally return to Colombia in 2007. During that trip, I worked on getting my high school diploma translated and accepted by the U.S. education system.

When I returned in the fall of 2007, I enrolled in my first college classes. While I waited to see if any of my college education from Colombia could be accepted in the U.S., I was content with just my high school diploma being accepted at the community college. I wanted to start from scratch, which I did—beginning with English 000, Math 000, and so on. I was determined to build my knowledge and skills from the ground up, showing my commitment to my goals and resilience in facing challenges.

I heard great things about the military, so around February 2009, I decided to join the Air Force. I started by taking the ASVAB, though I wasn't a U.S. citizen then. I thought joining the military, specifically the Air Force, would be patriotic. I hoped to become a medic, gain citizenship, serve the country, and receive money for school in return. I sought stability and a job.

I tried my best, but not being a citizen limited my opportunities in the medical field and military service. I repeatedly turned down other roles and frequently visited Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery for the MEPS. I joined the delayed entry program, but it didn't work out. By May, I decided to move on and applied for the FAFSA. While waiting to be officially discharged, I pursued EMT classes at the community college for the fall of 2009.

After finishing the EMT course at the end of 2009, I worked on core pre-nursing sciences and obtained an associate degree in science by the end of 2010. I completed my associate degree at a community college in Enterprise, Alabama, which included pre-nursing courses like microbiology, biostatistics, anatomy, chemistry, and algebra. 2011, I was accepted into Troy University's Alabama nursing school. I started the nursing program at Troy University in the spring of 2011.

Getting into and through nursing school was an arduous journey that required academic dedication, resourcefulness, and perseverance. I needed to be more than a good student; I had to devise strategies to sustain myself financially, especially in the latter semesters, when the demands of school, clinical work, and work became increasingly challenging.

In the beginning, balancing a few jobs with my studies was manageable. I was fortunate to have a supportive friend, Mrs. Edilma, who helped me secure a job at a high school cafeteria. I made sandwiches and cooked for the children there, which provided a stable income during those early days. To supplement my earnings, I also took on a role as a substitute teacher within the Enterprise ISD, which added some financial security.

But as the demands of nursing school intensified, I knew I needed to get creative. I began offering private Spanish lessons to children, which provided extra income and allowed me to use my skills meaningfully. Additionally, I took on roles as a babysitter, house sitter, and even pet sitter, making the most of every opportunity that came my way.

During this time, I encountered a wonderful family from Puerto Rico who opened their home to me, allowing me to stay with them for about four to six months. Their generosity was a lifeline, offering me stability when needed. In another remarkable instance, I was approached by an Army officer neighbor who was about to be deployed to Afghanistan. He had heard my story and, perhaps sensing my need for a stable place to live, offered me the opportunity to stay in his home rent-free. He also entrusted me with managing his properties, collecting rent, and promptly paying all bills. This level of trust and responsibility was an honor and a tremendous help in my journey. We remain friends to this day.

Reflecting on these experiences, I can see the profound impact of faith and the kindness of others in my life. Before meeting this neighbor, I had prayed for guidance and support, and it felt like an angel had been sent my way. The generosity of these families and individuals was instrumental in helping me overcome the many challenges I faced.

During this time, I made the difficult decision to accept student loans, understanding that this would allow me to save the money I had been using for rent. I knew my soldier friend would eventually return, and I needed to be prepared to find my place. After living in his home for about two years and three months, I moved into an apartment, where I stayed for about six months until a financial setback forced me to reconsider my living situation. With the help of friends, I put my belongings in storage and rotated my stay between two houses while I worked to get my finances back on track.

Ultimately, I secured an apartment where I lived until I graduated from nursing school and eventually moved to Texas. Looking back, the journey was anything but straightforward, filled with moments of grace, resilience, and the unwavering support of those who believed in me.

I started my nursing career in the hospital's emergency room in Alabama. At that time, the hospital served a town of roughly 29,000 people, with no other hospital within a 20-mile radius, so we were swamped. Nine beds in the ED and two additional trauma rooms totaling 12. The waiting time was approximately 4-5 hours, and we served a population of 100-120 patients daily. The staff mainly comprised four nurses and 3-4 providers. For some reason, there were not enough chairs to sit on, so I spent most of my 12-hour shifts on my feet. That's when I learned what plantar fasciitis felt like.

Things were easy. Adapting to the new culture, language, and understanding was difficult. But over time, things have become much more accessible. One of my guiding principles was not dwelling on my skin color, background, or accent; I focused on being myself. I have always looked at people for who they are, regardless of their background, skin color, creed, or religion. This approach has guided my practice as a nurse and now as a provider, ensuring equal treatment for everyone. I treat everyone with respect, regardless of their socioeconomic status or whether they have insurance. I choose to see the best in each person.

Throughout my nursing career, I have cared for people from all backgrounds, including various nationalities and creeds. I always provide care with the utmost respect because I see the creator behind them, and that belief guides me.

 

The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 5

 

Chapter 5

"Adversity introduces a man to himself." — Albert Einstein

Curb Balls

I recall when life was uncertain, but let me begin with a moment of joy: November 20, 1999, the day of my high school graduation. It was a day I had long anticipated, filled with pride and a sense of accomplishment. That moment felt like the culmination of years of hard work and dedication, a beacon of hope and a promise of a bright future. But little did I know that just 22 days later, on December 11, 1999, everything would instantly change.

That morning, I woke up feeling disoriented, and a strange sense of unease settled over me. I noticed that I was lying in bed the opposite way; I remembered falling asleep. It was as if someone had turned me around, though I couldn't explain why or how. It felt odd and unsettling, but I tried to brush it off. Mireya, the homeowner of the rental house we were staying at, told me my mother had left early for errands, leaving money for my lunch. It was strange; my mother wasn't one to go without a word, especially on a Saturday morning. The urgency of her departure puzzled me.

I looked at the clock and realized it was nearly 11 a.m.—an hour I rarely saw while still in bed. My daily routine had always been rigid: I woke up at 4:30 a.m., caught the bus by 5:30 a.m., and joined the line for morning prayers by 6 a.m.

But that morning was different. It felt like I was in a fog. I wondered if someone had given me something to make me sleep so deeply. To this day, I still don't know.

As I sat down for lunch, I rechecked the time—12:30 pm. I watched the seconds tick by, each feeling heavier than the last. When the clock struck 12:35, something extraordinary happened. I saw a human and ethereal figure move down the hallway and out the main door. It paused beside me, and I felt a gentle kiss on my cheek. In that instant, an image of my mother in a casket flashed through my mind. I shook my head, trying to dispel the unsettling vision, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Agitated, I went to a neighbor's house next door, feeling a growing dread. Within minutes, my cousin arrived, her face pale with worry. She told me that my mother might have had an accident, possibly a heart attack. The words didn't seem real; I was confused, my mind racing to catch up with the reality I was being pulled into. We walked to my cousin's house, about ¾ of a mile away, every step feeling like an eternity. When we arrived, I waited anxiously; my heart was pounding.

Then, my aunt walked in. She didn't say a word; she nodded. At that moment, I knew—my mother was gone. The realization shattered my heart into a million pieces. "No, no, no," I whispered through my tears, barely able to comprehend what was happening. But something inside me hardened a defense mechanism that allowed me to push forward. "Let me change; I'll go wherever," I said, trying to regain some semblance of control. People around me looked at me as if I had lost my mind, unable to understand how to quickly move from heartbreak to a fade of normalcy.

But that's how I cope. In the most challenging moments, I find a way to keep going, to put one foot in front of the other until the total weight of the pain finally catches up with me. I was only 17, still trying to make sense of the world, but I found the strength to keep moving forward, even when it felt like my world was crumbling around me.

Later, I discovered that my mother's time of death was recorded as 12:35 pm—the exact moment I had felt her presence. Standing by her casket, I was consumed by a desperate need for peace. I longed to speak with her, to have one last conversation with God, seeking forgiveness and solace. It was a moment of quiet desperation, a plea for understanding and closure.

But as I tried to find peace, rumors began to swirl. People whispered about suicide, claiming she had ingested formaldehyde. Her body had been found far from where she should have been, in a place that made no sense to me. The conflicting stories only added to my confusion and pain. I couldn't understand why she would be in that location or what had led to her final moments. Days later, a woman recounted how my mother had appeared at her door out of nowhere, asking to use the restroom. Moments later, my mother had collapsed, foaming at the mouth. The authorities ruled her death a suicide, but I could not—and still can't—believe it.

Stories circulated about an argument she had had earlier that morning about money owed to her. The people who witnessed the argument said that after the argument, she left quickly, catching a bus to find out who knew where. But none of it made sense to me. My mother was gone, and no amount of speculation could bring her back. The weight of the rumors, the accusations, and the confusion became unbearable. I knew I needed to leave town to escape the whispers that followed me everywhere, accusing me, blaming me, as if I had somehow contributed to my mother's death. People hurled insults at me as I walked down the street, but they did not know—how could they?

As part of my recovery journey, I was referred to a counselor with the hope that professional guidance would aid my healing process. However, my first and only session ended with a remark that shocked and deeply offended me: "You may follow your mother's steps." This prediction undermined my individuality and cast a shadow over my efforts to carve out my path.

I was taken aback by how a counselor, someone who barely knew me, could make such a sweeping and unsettling prediction. It felt as though she was dismissing my unique identity and personal journey by reducing me to statistics or a genetic predisposition. This was a misjudgment and a denial of my capacity for self-determination.

While statistics and genetics can offer insights into patterns and tendencies, they are not the sole arbiters of our destinies. Our lives are not just a matter of chance or predetermined by external factors but are shaped by our intrinsic values, inner strength, and choices.

This belief in self-determination is what I call stubbornness in the world's best sense. This stubbornness drives us to defy expectations and assert our agency in shaping our lives. As a good Southerner might say, “You ain’t telling me what to do.” This attitude reflects a refusal to let external judgments dictate our paths, a determination to rise above challenges, and an unwavering belief in our ability to forge our destinies despite what others might predict.

After my mother passed away, I stayed with my aunt for about four months, a period that brought both gratitude and unexpected challenges. During that time, my aunt generously gave me an allowance to help me attend my first year of college, which I appreciated. She kept meticulous records of every expense in her notebook, a detail I did not pay much attention to then but later realized had significant implications.

When I eventually received the life insurance payout from my mom, my aunt presented me with a bill for everything she had spent on me during those months. I did not mind paying her back; I was genuinely grateful for her support during such a difficult time. However, I was caught off guard when she added, "Here's the bill for what you owe me. I didn't include the cost of food, but I can charge your dad for that later." Those words stung deeply—a stark reminder that financial transactions can sometimes overshadow the bonds of love and care, even within the closest families. The idea of being charged for food by a family member, especially when I was a young orphan trying to find my way, left an impression on me. Nevertheless, I accepted the situation for what it was and paid her what I owed, choosing not to harbor any grudges. But the memory of that conversation has lingered, a subtle ache that never entirely faded.

Later, when I moved to my maternal grandmother's house, the dynamics shifted again. My other aunt, living there then, required me to contribute a fixed amount for groceries—300,000 pesos a month, roughly equivalent to $100 today. They assumed that my mother's pension, which I received if I attended school, would support me. This pension, however, was less than $200 a month and was set to end when I turned 25, adding immense financial pressure during those years.

During this challenging period, a good friend, lawyer, and mentor named Jaime Anacona became a close, confident, and spiritual guide. Recognizing the difficulties I faced, Jaime helped me navigate one of the most significant decisions of my life—transferring my mother's pension to my father. Since I was preparing to leave for the U.S., it made sense to pass the retirement to him. I had wrestled with this decision many times before, as I felt conflicted; on the one hand, I saw it as a gift from God, but on the other, I struggled with the belief that my father didn't deserve any of that money. However, I chose to honor my mother's memory, knowing that she would have wanted to help my dad later in life; after all, he was the man through whom I gained life. Jaime's guidance was invaluable, and my father continues to live off that pension to this day—a testament to the power of mentorship and the complexities of family relationships.

Years later, after I arrived in the U.S., another layer of family history was revealed to me, adding an ironic twist to my sacrifices. I discovered that my mother had also owned a share of my grandmother's house, which I had been paying rent to live in during my college years. The story went that at one point, my grandmother's home was on the brink of foreclosure due to unpaid debts, and my mother, sacrificing her opportunities to buy a home, chose instead to save my grandmother's house by paying off the debt. As a result, she was added to the deed, making her a co-owner of the property.

This revelation came to light when I was asked to sign papers to transfer the property to my Aunt Margui, who had reclaimed it. She argued that after 20 years of caring for her mother, she had earned the right to at least half of the home. She and one of her brothers had decided to buy the property, dividing it between themselves. The justification for offering me a mere 5 million pesos—about $1,300—was that I was now considered wealthy, living abroad in the U.S., and thus had no need for a home in Colombia. The irony was not lost on me, and I found myself in a position where I had nothing to lose but also nothing to gain; actually, I did have something to gain, peace!. So, I signed the papers, using the money to cover my airfare and stay in Colombia. Without going into any more details, I will let you, the reader, draw conclusions about that chapter of my life.

The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 3

 

Chapter 3

My Father's Journey

"The greatest legacy one can pass on to one's children and grandchildren is not money or other material things accumulated in one's life, but rather a legacy of character and faith." – Rev. Billy Graham.

I vividly remember the shift in my father’s life when I was around 5 years old. It was 1987, the last time I saw him drunk on the porch of our home. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but something inside him changed not long after. The man I had known, with all his flaws and struggles, was suddenly not the same. One of my earliest memories of this transformation was when he took me to an evangelical church. I was captivated by the lively music, the heartfelt prayers, and the congregation's fervor. It starkly contrasted the solemn rituals of Catholic masses I had attended before.

Years later, I understood that this marked the beginning of his spiritual journey to faith in Jesus Christ—a journey that would profoundly shape his life and mine.

My father was born in Corozal, Sucre, Colombia, steeped in a Roman Catholic tradition. As a boy, he served as an altar server and grew up immersed in Catholic practices, teachings, and celebrations. His early education at the Escuela Normal in Corozal set him on a path to becoming an educator, and for many years, he taught in schools across the Sucre Department. His life seemed structured and predictable from the outside, but a more profound spiritual calling awaited him.

As an educator, he was assigned to a school in Chalán, Sucre, a small, rural town where life presented unforeseen challenges. While there, he fell gravely ill. His condition baffled local doctors, and traditional remedies failed to bring relief. During this critical time, a former classmate, Milka, mentioned her family’s evangelical church and suggested he attend a service for healing. Out of desperation, he agreed.

The pastors prayed over him at the church, and he experienced what he described as a miraculous deliverance. He later told me that he believed he had been under a witchcraft spell—a not uncommon belief in some parts of Colombia. The physical healing he experienced was undeniable, but what stayed with him even more deeply was the spiritual awakening that followed. He began to speak passionately about having a relationship with a savior, emphasizing the importance of personal connection over rituals and traditions.

Almost immediately, he quit smoking and drinking—habits that had been deeply ingrained in his life. This transformation didn’t happen overnight; there were moments of struggle and doubt. However, my father’s newfound faith in Jesus Christ gave him a sense of purpose and peace he had never known before.

This shift didn’t sever his connection to his Catholic roots entirely. Initially, he grappled with worshipping God directly, without intermediaries like priests or saints. These practices had been foundational to his upbringing, and abandoning them felt like letting go of a part of himself. Yet, as he delved deeper into the Bible, he began to embrace three key truths of the Christian faith:

1. There is only one mediator between God and humanity—Jesus Christ (1 Timothy 2:5).
2. Salvation comes through no other name but Jesus (Acts 4:12).
3. Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life, and no one can come to the Father except through Him (John 14:3-6).

Though he adopted these beliefs, my father never dismissed the Virgin Mary or the saints entirely. He taught me that they deserve honor and respect for their roles in the faith, but worship belongs to God alone. He viewed it as a miracle that God had called him into pastoral work, where he could share these truths with others.

As my father embraced his calling, my mother remained devoted to Catholicism. Raised in a Catholic private school, she even considered becoming a nun at one point. Naturally, I was brought up in a Catholic environment, attending a school where we prayed the rosary daily and honored the Virgin Mary. Yet, my father’s teachings about the Bible and worshiping God alone resonated deeply with me from an early age.

I remember participating in school prayers, reciting the Hail Mary and other Catholic devotions while silently praying to my Heavenly Father. Even as a child, I felt strongly convinced that my relationship with God was personal and direct, a belief my father had instilled in me.

His testimony of transformation became the foundation of my own faith journey. Watching him overcome his struggles and dedicate his life to God inspired me to develop my personal relationship with Jesus Christ. This relationship has been my anchor through life’s challenges, guiding my values, decisions, and understanding of the world.

Looking back, I see how my father’s spiritual awakening changed him and set the course for my life. His devotion to God taught me resilience, faith, and the power of grace. I carry this legacy daily andto pass on to it others through my words and actiondeeds

I am deeply grateful for my father's guidance and the foundation in education on Christian values. His testimony is not just a story of transformation; it is the foundation on which my faith journey began. His unwavering devotion to God helped me develop a personal relationship with Jesus Christ that continues to define who I am today. This relationship has guided me through life's challenges, giving me strength and comfort in times of need and shaping my values and decisions.