Corn Mothers

PHILOSOPHY

My philosophy of life is rooted in love, resilience, and purpose. I understand the hardships my family faced, the sacrifices, the silent struggles, and the strength required to press forward when the path was uncertain. Those experiences are woven into the fabric of who I am. They have taught me that we are each a puzzle piece in a greater story, connected not by perfection, but by our willingness to hold space for one another. I believe in showing up with heart. In leading not for recognition, but for impact. In reclaiming the things that truly matter: our time, our truth, our voice.

I carry these beliefs into every part of my life: as a mother striving to model courage and kindness for my children, as a community member committed to justice, and as a leader who listens first and lifts others always. I have learned that love is not weakness, but the fiercest kind of strength. Service is not self-sacrifice, but a sacred act of hope. And progress is not always loud; sometimes it comes in quiet choices and unseen acts of care. We each hold a piece of the world’s healing. My piece is rooted in family, advocacy, and in the belief that everyone deserves to be seen, heard, and valued. Our legacy is not what we leave behind; it is how we show up, how we love, and how we hold each other together, piece by piece, day by day.

My Corn Mothers and " Corn Father"

All three of these wonderful people have inspired me throughout my life.

My Mother, Mariluz and My Aunt, Marina

This part of my story starts with my Aunt Marina, and with my mother, Mariluz.

In 1965, the Dominican Republic was engulfed in political turmoil, a civil war that gripped the nation and drew international attention. The United States intervened, initially to evacuate its citizens, but also to contain what it feared might become another front for communism. Amid this heightened military presence, my aunt Marina from my mother’s side met a U.S. soldier. Their meeting would change the course of our family’s story.

They married in 1966. Shortly afterward, he was relocated to the U.S. due to his service. In 1967, Aunt Marina arrived in the United States, carrying the documentation that allowed her to begin a new life and a fragile hope for a new beginning. But their marriage was short-lived. Alone in a foreign country, she faced a harsh new reality. She endured bitter winters, a foreign tongue, and the aching loneliness that comes with starting over. Still, she persevered. Her resilience laid the foundation upon which future generations, including mine, would rise.

In November of 1978, my mother Mariluz received the opportunity to make the United States her new home by obtaining permanent U.S. residency, a doorway opened by her sister’s sacrifice. With hope in her heart and little more than determination, she left the Dominican Republic behind and traveled to Greeley, Colorado, reuniting with the woman who had paved the way. She knew little about America, its culture, its language, its promise, until her sister Marina’s departure stirred her imagination. That single act of migration became the spark that would forever alter the future of our family.

My mother and aunt taught me that strength does not always announce itself. Sometimes, it looks like leaving everything familiar behind. Sometimes, it looks like raising a family while carrying the weight of uncertainty. Sometimes, it looks like waking up each day and continuing forward when the path ahead is anything but certain. My aunt’s courage opened a door. My mother walked through it with perseverance, dignity, and hope. Their strength became part of the foundation upon which I would build my own life.

I was born in Greeley, raised in the sprawling neighborhoods of Southern California, and now find myself rooted once again in Colorado soil, in Evans, where I have the profound honor of serving as the city’s first Latina Council Member. My aunt’s, mother’s, and father’s sacrifices helped give me the determination to attain this office, and other positions that I have held that are vital to our community.

My childhood was a symphony of contradictions: a soundtrack of joy threaded with survival and laughter but underscored by fear. As the eldest daughter of immigrant parents and a first-generation American, my world demanded strength early and often. By age nine, I was translating complex documents from English to Spanish for my mother, even as I struggled to understand them myself. I was her human Google Maps, long before smartphones existed, guiding her through unfamiliar streets, institutions, and expectations so she would not lose her way, literally or figuratively. The sacrifices that she made for me made me happy to do this.

I carried the weight of composure because the world would not pause for women like my mother. To compensate for this, I learned to navigate it with alertness and intention, always watching, always absorbing.

But I also watched my mother.

I watched her face challenges that could have broken her spirit, yet she continued forward. I watched her try to learn a new language, navigate an unfamiliar culture, build a life, and care for her family while carrying fears and burdens that I was too young to fully understand. I watched her persevere when things were difficult and remain compassionate when the world was not always compassionate toward her.

Her strength became my blueprint.

My aunt and mother taught me that courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is moving forward because there is something greater than fear, calling you to continue. I grew into a strong woman because I was raised in the presence of strong women. I learned that I could be afraid and still be courageous, uncertain and still move forward, tired and still show up.

I stand on the shoulders of incredible women who came before me. Their sacrifices gave me opportunities they did not always have. Their perseverance gave me a foundation. Their courage gave me permission to dream beyond what they could have imagined for themselves.

Their early responsibilities shaped the woman I would become. They taught me to lead with empathy, to listen without judgment, and to be a bridge for others traveling the same uncertain roads. What once felt like survival has become my purpose: to create space for others, to make visible what too often remains unseen, and to light the path forward for those still finding their way.

My mother, despite her limited formal education, tried with all her might to learn English. But language was both a wall and a weight, a constant reminder of the barriers she faced. She bore the stares, the dismissals, the subtle humiliations, yet she never let the world harden her. She moved through her surroundings with quiet dignity and a deep instinct to help others, even when she herself was struggling.

Watching her taught me that community is not just a place; it is a promise. A shared responsibility to lift, to listen, to serve.

It also taught me something about the kind of woman I wanted to become.

My Father, Juan

In 1975, at just nineteen, my father arrived from Mexico in Greeley, fueled by a dream and a will to work. By 1977, he had enrolled at AIMS Community College, learning English through their adult education program. Soon after, he joined a vocational training initiative and became an auto mechanic.

But it was not just his hands that labored. It was his heart. My father has always had the soul of a servant. For years, he worked with the Arc charity, supporting individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. As a child, I would visit his workplace. I didn’t understand the impact of his service, but I felt his love and patience. His power of dignity and inclusion. My father’s example planted the seeds of purpose I now carry.

Because of what I learned from my father, mother, and aunt, my passion is rooted in service, steady, intentional, and grounded in lived experience. I find meaning in volunteerism, in philanthropy, and in showing up as a role model for those who, like me, grew up between two worlds. As a Latina and a first-generation American, I understand the power of representation. I have spent years working to open doors for others, ensuring that the voices too often dismissed are seen, heard, and valued.

Because of what I learned from them, today, I serve on diverse boards alongside people equally committed to equity and justice, working for translation and interpretation access, for safe housing and clean air, for the prevention of violence, and for the advancement of human rights. This work is not about recognition. It is about responsibility. That’s another thing I learned from my mother, father, and aunt.

I believe in the ripple effect of both small kindnesses and bold action. I have seen how one person’s care can awaken another’s courage. I have seen how belief in someone who has never been believed in can change everything. I hope my journey serves as proof that anyone, from any beginning, can be a force for good. That we all have the capacity to lift, to build, to heal.

At the heart of my work lies a simple but powerful hope: to inspire others to act. To remind them that real change begins with compassion. That no act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever overlooked. When each of us does our part, we begin to shape the world into one that reflects our highest ideals, a world where justice is not abstract, where dignity is right, and where community means showing up for one another.

I believe in the quiet strength of everyday courage. I know what it means to feel fear and move forward anyway. I know because I watched the women before me do it first, as well as my father.

And if my voice, my work, or my presence helps light the way for someone else, then I know I am living my purpose. Because I do not stand alone. Along with my father’s example, I stand on the shoulders of women who endured, women who sacrificed, women who dreamed, and women who refused to give up. Their strength lives in me. Their courage reminds me of who I am. And their story is part of mine.

Because from any beginning, from broken roots, from humble hands, from quiet corners of the world, hope can grow. And from that hope, a better world can rise.

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