An Immigrant's story
An Immigrant's story
Ever since Pangea, every human that ever existed has been forced, chosen or inspired to migrate from one place to another and call it home. This is my story.
Ever since Pangea, every human that ever existed has been forced, chosen or inspired to migrate from one place to another and call it home. This is my story.
The first artist I got to know after I landed on a new country. He played that trumpet as if it was the love of his life he have met years ago; he knew how to make life out of it and bring the soul of the people, yet, a street artist barely heard of and getting silent by the strong wind did not get much attention. And even though he was the only person fully clothed at the beach with a bright trumpet, he was hidden in plain sight.
I remember this was my first time ever in a botanical garden in the country I landed. It was as if it was taken out of a fairytale; it was filled with beautiful tall trees full of life that made me remember my home country full of nature, great skies and orchids. something that caught my special attention were the leaves printed on the floor, giving an infinite presence of nature and how we as human beings try very hard to make infinite something that has a life-cycle.
ecause there were tall beautiful trees getting the starring role on for the people's eyes these beauties didn't get the attention they also deserved and even though they have an infinite life-cycle, they come across as unseen or hidden in plain sight.
I remember going to my first farmers market ever and it happened when I moved to another country. Because this was a very huge farmer's market, there was a lot to see, buy and discover on each of the stalls. Each stall had at least a group of 3 or 4 people, however this particular one, did not have anyone, even though there were various cactus with different colors and the prices were low. It seemed like these beauties were silently waiting to be seen and appreciated.
Solitude
Solitude
There’s a kind of loneliness that no one warns you about when you leave home. It’s not just missing your people. It’s realizing that no one here has the full picture of who you are. No one knows your inside jokes. Your favorite bakery. What your mom calls you when she’s mad.
You walk around carrying a version of yourself that only exists back home.
And some days, the silence feels louder than any city noise.
“You don’t emigrate with a suitcase. You emigrate with a body full of ghosts.”— Karina Sainz Borgo
When I first read this line, I felt seen. I never knew how to explain the heaviness I carried, even in empty rooms. This project is my way of giving shape to those ghosts—of naming what’s followed me, so it doesn’t haunt me in silence.
On Loneliness and Belonging
On Loneliness and Belonging
You learn to live with it. Not because it gets easier, but because you get better at finding pieces of home in unexpected places— in someone’s accent, a smell in the street, the way the sunlight hits a wall. Little by little, the loneliness becomes space. And you begin to fill it with things you choose. One day, I realized I was living in a country full of people just like me— carrying memories, stories, and roots in their pockets. The feeling I had wasn’t just mine; it was shared, acknowledged. With every street I crossed, I found bits of home tucked into corners, layered into the city’s rhythm. I wasn’t the only one searching. And somehow, that made all the difference.
“You’re not from where you were born, but from where you feel least alone.” — Leonardo Padrón
These words stayed with me. Because somewhere along the way, the loneliness I carried started to feel... familiar. Not because it disappeared, but because I realized I wasn’t the only one holding it.
In every accent, every block, every moment of recognition— I found people like me, living in between countries, learning how to choose their own version of home.
The beach has always meant home. In Venezuela, it was never a trip—it was part of life. Just fifteen minutes away, it was the soundscape of childhood, the smell of sunscreen in my hair, the way the sea always knew how to listen.
Now, even far away, whenever I walk toward the water, something shifts. The wind feels familiar. The salt in the air speaks in a language I grew up with.
It reminds me that home isn’t just a place on a map— it’s a feeling the ocean remembers for me.
The beach always brings me back.
Even in a new country, saltwater feels like home.
The beach always brings me back.
Even in a new country, saltwater feels like home.
An Immigrant's story
An Immigrant's story
Ever since Pangea, every human that ever existed has been forced, chosen or inspired to migrate from one place to another and call it home. This is my story.
Ever since Pangea, every human that ever existed has been forced, chosen or inspired to migrate from one place to another and call it home. This is my story.
The first artist I got to know after I landed on a new country. He played that trumpet as if it was the love of his life he have met years ago; he knew how to make life out of it and bring the soul of the people, yet, a street artist barely heard of and getting silent by the strong wind did not get much attention. And even though he was the only person fully clothed at the beach with a bright trumpet, he was hidden in plain sight.
I remember this was my first time ever in a botanical garden in the country I landed. It was as if it was taken out of a fairytale; it was filled with beautiful tall trees full of life that made me remember my home country full of nature, great skies and orchids. something that caught my special attention were the leaves printed on the floor, giving an infinite presence of nature and how we as human beings try very hard to make infinite something that has a life-cycle.
ecause there were tall beautiful trees getting the starring role on for the people's eyes these beauties didn't get the attention they also deserved and even though they have an infinite life-cycle, they come across as unseen or hidden in plain sight.
I remember going to my first farmers market ever and it happened when I moved to another country. Because this was a very huge farmer's market, there was a lot to see, buy and discover on each of the stalls. Each stall had at least a group of 3 or 4 people, however this particular one, did not have anyone, even though there were various cactus with different colors and the prices were low. It seemed like these beauties were silently waiting to be seen and appreciated.
Solitude
Solitude
There’s a kind of loneliness that no one warns you about when you leave home. It’s not just missing your people. It’s realizing that no one here has the full picture of who you are. No one knows your inside jokes. Your favorite bakery. What your mom calls you when she’s mad.
You walk around carrying a version of yourself that only exists back home.
And some days, the silence feels louder than any city noise.
“You don’t emigrate with a suitcase. You emigrate with a body full of ghosts.”— Karina Sainz Borgo
When I first read this line, I felt seen. I never knew how to explain the heaviness I carried, even in empty rooms. This project is my way of giving shape to those ghosts—of naming what’s followed me, so it doesn’t haunt me in silence.
On Loneliness and Belonging
On Loneliness and Belonging
You learn to live with it. Not because it gets easier, but because you get better at finding pieces of home in unexpected places— in someone’s accent, a smell in the street, the way the sunlight hits a wall. Little by little, the loneliness becomes space. And you begin to fill it with things you choose. One day, I realized I was living in a country full of people just like me— carrying memories, stories, and roots in their pockets. The feeling I had wasn’t just mine; it was shared, acknowledged. With every street I crossed, I found bits of home tucked into corners, layered into the city’s rhythm. I wasn’t the only one searching. And somehow, that made all the difference.
“You’re not from where you were born, but from where you feel least alone.” — Leonardo Padrón
These words stayed with me. Because somewhere along the way, the loneliness I carried started to feel... familiar. Not because it disappeared, but because I realized I wasn’t the only one holding it.
In every accent, every block, every moment of recognition— I found people like me, living in between countries, learning how to choose their own version of home.
The beach has always meant home. In Venezuela, it was never a trip—it was part of life. Just fifteen minutes away, it was the soundscape of childhood, the smell of sunscreen in my hair, the way the sea always knew how to listen.
Now, even far away, whenever I walk toward the water, something shifts. The wind feels familiar. The salt in the air speaks in a language I grew up with.
It reminds me that home isn’t just a place on a map— it’s a feeling the ocean remembers for me.
The beach always brings me back.
Even in a new country, saltwater feels like home.
The beach always brings me back.
Even in a new country, saltwater feels like home.
