Community.

Belonging.

Name a more human desire. Go ahead... I’ll wait.

If you polled a group of 100 people, I bet the survey would say both—or at least one—of these two words would be in the top five.

Putting aside my not-so-serious belief that we are all celestial beings who have chosen to have an earthly experience, I come from a lineage of immigrants searching for community, for belonging.

My great-grandmother was born in a small town in Valencia, Spain. Circumstances compelled her to pick up her things and move to Cuba, where my grandfather was born. While my mother was born in Cuba, her parents thought it would be best to move to Puerto Rico, where she was raised. My older sister was born in Puerto Rico, but destiny would have it that I would be born in Miami, Florida.

For those unfamiliar, Miami is unlike any other part of Florida—and unlike any other part of the United States, really. Most of Florida identifies with the American South (think: Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi). Miami, despite being one of the southernmost cities in the U.S., provides a safe bubble for Hispanics—and given its proximity to Cuba, it’s a natural and popular destination for Cuban immigrants.

So, my experience in Florida as a Miami native born to Cuban immigrants always puzzled and frustrated me. In the eyes of the Cuban diaspora, I wasn’t one of them—and while my strong Cuban roots objected, I kind of agreed. Their struggle wasn’t mine. I didn’t share in the sacrifices they made—my parents did. I was the benefactor. Most of all, I didn’t speak like they did. Neither my accent nor my vocabulary reflected theirs.

At the same time, whenever I traveled outside of Miami and spoke with other Floridians, I was still an outsider. In their eyes, I didn’t reflect their community either. Despite being born in Florida, they saw me as a Cuban.

I’ll never forget when, as a young adult, a friend of mine from Southwest Florida told me I had an accent. I was so offended. Years later, my friend’s accusation turned out to be spot on as the Miami accent was officially recognized.

Ni de aquí, ni de allá—not from here, not from there. That’s how I would sum up my existence in Florida. It was only when I was with fellow first-generation Miamians that I ever felt that sense of community, belonging—being with my people. A sentiment I’m sure is shared by other children of immigrants.

You know you are surrounded by people who grew up in the same environment as you when you share humor, when you recognize the same cuisine, when you understand the same references.

An immigrant once again

As life would have it, I’m now an immigrant myself—an American in Spain. Just as my parents, and their parents before them, and their parents before them, I’m searching for a better life for me and my family.

Living in Spain has made me hyperaware of how language shapes identity. I feel like I have two versions of myself: Alex, the American, who speaks with confidence, humor, and ease; and Alejandro, el yankee que no es gringo, who speaks with precision and caution, carefully constructing every word in every sentence.

I only say this half-jokingly because it feels like I can’t be my true self outside of my native tongue. When I switch to Spanish, I am incredibly more thoughtful in my approach to sentence structure and word selection. As a result, I am not as quick-witted and, at times, even feel inadequate.

In English, I react.

In Spanish, I calculate.

But there’s an upside—it forces me to listen more actively. I find myself thinking more before I speak.

Despite my Lost in Translation instances, I’ve found a strange sense of ease in my role as an immigrant. Unlike in Miami or Florida, where I felt expected to belong but often didn’t, here in Spain, there’s no confusion—I am foreign, and that is understood. It’s a clarity I never had before.

Here, I feel more comfortable slowing down. I’m more comfortable asking someone to explain themselves.

Warren Buffet once said, “Happiness = reality/expectations.”

Maybe that’s why I’ve found peace here. Back in Miami or Florida, I felt the pressure of fitting into pre-existing expectations—whether from my Cuban heritage or American society. In Spain, I have no script to follow—perfect for someone who enjoys improv. No one expects me to be anything but foreign.

A new kind of belonging

While I have made every effort to assimilate, I have unexpectedly found comfort in a different space—the community of expats.

There’s something reassuring about being surrounded by people who know what it’s like to start over, to navigate language barriers, to never fully belong but still carve out a space.

That said, all the expats I’ve met here in Spain didn’t grow up with Spanish speakers at home like I did. So again, I find myself outside the fold. They see me as someone with an advantage.

At peace with not belonging

I’ve spent my life existing in liminal spaces, never quite fitting into any one box. And thanks to the self-reflection I’ve had to do while writing this article, I’ve come to realize that’s ok.

It’s natural to question identity. But it’s also important to remember that we are who we are. Where we come from, what we do for a living, and the roles we play—those are just pieces of a larger whole.

Being able to go between worlds, to carry different cultures inside me—that’s not a burden. It’s a gift.