I have been back in my hometown in Mexico for almost five months now, and even writing that sentence fills me with emotion.

On January 31, I rolled into my sister’s home and began a new chapter of my life surrounded by family, familiar faces, and the place that helped shape who I am.

After spending 27 years in the United States, coming home was not a small decision. It was not something I took lightly. A person does not live away from home for that long without carrying a lot of memories, questions, fears, and emotions.

So naturally, some people may wonder:

Why didn’t I come back sooner?

The truth is, it was never simple.

After I became a person with a disability, the idea of returning to Mexico felt very complicated. It brought fear, vulnerability, and many mixed emotions. I had gone to the United States with the dream of supporting my family and helping them fight poverty. Coming back needing so much help felt, in my mind, like the complete opposite of what I had hoped for.

It was about 6 or 7 months since I became disabled. My first new year’s in a hospital. Healdsburg hospital 2004.

For many years, that was very difficult for me to accept.

But little by little, something inside me began to change.

When I joined CommunicationFIRST, my way of thinking about disability started to shift. I met and learned from other people with disabilities, including people with disabilities similar to mine, who were doing powerful and meaningful things. They were advocating, leading, teaching, creating change, and living with purpose.

Seeing them opened my eyes.

They reminded me that disability does not take away a person’s worth. It does not remove a person’s dignity. It does not erase someone’s ability to love, contribute, inspire, and make an impact.

That change in perspective helped me see myself differently. It gave me more confidence. It helped me begin to imagine returning to Mexico not with shame, but with a different heart and a stronger mindset.

At the same time, I remained deeply committed to the clinical trial at the University of California, San Francisco. Being part of that research meant a great deal to me. I felt honored to contribute to work that could help improve communication for people who cannot speak.

For more than six years, I stayed committed to that study. I wanted to continue for as long as I could. The research team wanted that too. But eventually, the implant became unstable, and the brain signals began to weaken. The doctors, surgeon, and researchers decided that it was no longer worth the risk to leave the device in place. There was a possibility of infection, and that could have put my life in serious danger.

So we had to choose a date for surgery to remove the device.

Everything happened very quickly and unexpectedly. The surgery was scheduled just a couple of days before my birthday celebration. My birthday was Wednesday, July 23, but I usually celebrate on the following Sunday, which would have been July 27. Because of the operation and the antibiotics I needed to take for nearly a month afterward, I had to postpone my birthday celebration until August.

Once I was no longer participating in the research, something shifted in me.

I felt a strong need to come home.

Not because I was bitter.
Not because I was discouraged.
Not because I had given up.

It was actually one of the hardest decisions I have ever made.

Yes, I wanted to continue in the trial. And yes, the team wanted me to continue too. But I would have had to wait about a year before I could be re-implanted. I did not want to keep waiting. More than anything, I did not want to return to Mexico in a box and never again see the family I still have here.

That truth stayed with me.

And that is something I want others to think about too.

Sometimes we wait too long. We wait for the perfect time, the perfect health, the perfect situation, the perfect plan. But life does not always give us perfect conditions. Sometimes the warning is quiet, but serious: do not wait until it is too late to return to the people and places that matter to you.

Of course, leaving the United States was not easy.

I had built a life in Sonoma, California. Saying goodbye meant leaving behind many people I love—my beloved sister, her husband and their family, my brother, dear friends, relatives, caregivers, and people who became part of my story.

I also carry deep gratitude for the nursing staff at Healdsburg Hospital. They were incredible. In many ways, they helped save my life. I was in very bad shape at that time, and without their care, attention, and compassion, I truly do not think I would have lasted much longer.

That was about 19 years ago, before I moved to the nursing home in Sonoma, California.

To all the nurses, CNAs, and everyone who cared for me at Healdsburg Hospital: THANK YOU. I will always remember you. God bless you all.

In January 2007, after I had improved a little, I was transferred to the nursing home. When I first arrived, it was called London House. Later, it became Golden Living Center, and eventually Sonoma Post-Acute, which is what it is called today.

Over the years, many people there treated me with kindness and care, especially the nurses, CNAs, housekeeping staff, activities staff, and others who helped make daily life easier. I did have some disagreements with management from time to time, especially with administrators, but aside from that, many people were very good to me.

Things became even better once I was able to leave the facility and go out by myself. I could go into the community whenever I wanted. I had a curfew, but honestly, it was VERY NICE—and I hardly ever broke it. 😂

What I miss most are not the walls of the nursing home. I miss the people who made those years more human. I miss my nurses and CNAs very much, and I truly hope some of them make it to Michoacán someday so I can see them again.

Some of my nurses and CNAs at Sonoma Post-Acute

I was also blessed by the kindness of many people in everyday life.

When I went to the store, people helped me shop for groceries. At church, people helped me get settled and even took off my cowboy hat for me. Those gestures may seem small to some people, but to me they meant a lot.

One of my favorite places to go was Dutch Bros Coffee. The young people there were phenomenal—welcoming, kind, and full of good energy. I even got free drinks. Of course, the free drinks were appreciated, but what mattered most was their friendship. They made life warmer.

Some of my Dutch Bros friends

I was also fortunate to have a couple of Americans who became like a second family to me. They supported me throughout my years in the nursing home, both financially and emotionally. They made sure I had dependable people looking after me. That kind of love and support is something I will never forget.

So yes, leaving after investing so much of my life there was enormous.

But deep in my heart, I knew it was time.

So I came home.

And now, after 27 years away, I am here again—back in my hometown, back with family, and back in the place where my parents were laid to rest.

It has been an emotional journey, but also a beautiful one. In many ways, coming home meant listening to my heart. It meant honoring my life. It meant choosing to return while I still had the chance.

And more than anything, it feels like a BLESSING.