When I decided to leave Puerto Rico to study in Washington, D.C., I felt like I was making the boldest choice possible for my 17-year-old self. I wanted to study sociology and political science, and it seemed logical to do that in the capital of the United States, where politics aren’t abstract; they’re daily life. My uncle attended the same university decades before, and he’d describe the city as international and fast-paced. I imagined myself stepping right into that rhythm; I pictured coats in the winter, coffee near monuments, big lecture halls in historic buildings, and maybe even an internship on Capitol Hill one day. In my head, it all played out like a movie. I saw a version of myself who was independent, driven, and instantly connected to people who cared about culture and politics as much as I did. I thought adulthood would arrive the moment I moved away and assumed diversity would automatically translate into belonging. I told myself homesickness would pass quickly and that freedom would naturally mean happiness, but what I didn’t consider was that freedom could also feel very quiet.
At first, D.C. felt exactly how I’d imagined it. My friends from home and I explored constantly. We visited museums and monuments, tried food from different cultures, rented bikes, learned how the metro works, and walked everywhere. There was something energizing about being surrounded by history and ambition. My classes were engaging, and my professors were thoughtful and politically aware. I liked listening to classmates from all over the country debate real issues and speak with conviction about change, but once the excitement settled, other feelings surfaced. The campus was smaller than I expected and located far from downtown, which made it feel isolated. Socially, things were different and unfamiliar; people didn’t talk much in class, and building friendships felt harder than I’d imagined. I found a Latino student association that gave me some comfort, but its activities were limited. The nightlife was expensive, the weather was much colder than anything I was used to, and living away from home for the first time was heavier than I’d anticipated.
Ironically, speaking English all day took more energy than I thought it would. Spanish is my first language, and constantly switching made me feel slightly disconnected from myself. Sometimes I’d hesitate in class or second-guess my words, and that hesitation added to the distance I already felt. I was also surprised by how little many people knew about Puerto Rico. Explaining that we’re part of the United States became a recurring conversation, and each time, it reminded me how far I was from home. The political environment did leave a strong impression on me, though. Campus life was deeply tied to activism; there were protests, strikes for fair pay, and constant debates about national issues. Most students leaned progressive and were vocal about their beliefs, so I appreciated being in such an aware space, even if it also made me question when activism becomes more about performance than impact.
Still, I never felt fully rooted there. It wasn’t one single moment (although there was a conflict in my dorm that made me feel unsafe), but more a build-up of small experiences that slowly confirmed I didn’t belong in that environment. I tried to adjust and told myself things would improve with time; however, the sense of being drained didn’t go away. Choosing to transfer was incredibly difficult. For weeks, I questioned whether leaving meant I had failed. I had invested so much emotionally into building a life there, but after the dorm situation escalated, I had to admit I didn’t feel settled or secure. The idea of going home slowly stopped feeling like defeat and instead started feeling like relief. Two of my friends from Puerto Rico felt the same way, so we decided to transfer together!
My family, especially my mom, supported me completely; she reminded me that choosing peace is not the same as quitting. When she flew to D.C. to help me pack, putting my life into boxes made me realize how much weight I’d been carrying.
Coming back to Puerto Rico and starting at UPRRP felt like finally exhaling. The campus was open, warm, and alive. It wasn’t just about being geographically home. It was about feeling comfortable in myself again. I joined Her Campus, the Peer Orientation Program, and the Pre-Law Society, and each space gave me something different. Writing helped me reconnect with my creativity, orienting new students allowed me to support others during important transitions, and the Pre-Law Society gave me clarity about my academic goals and introduced me to people who cared deeply about social issues. Being involved made the campus feel intimate in the best way. I wasn’t just attending classes, I was participating in a community. Culturally, everything felt natural again. I didn’t have to overthink how I spoke or how I expressed myself. There was always something happening on campus, whether cultural, academic, or activist; that constant movement created a sense of belonging I hadn’t felt before.
UPRRP carries a long history of political engagement, and its strikes and protests are part of Puerto Rico’s broader story. You can see that history in murals and posters across campus, for one. Being in that environment reshaped how I think about activism and identity; it made me more introspective about how spaces influence what we value and how we show up in the world. Before leaving, home was simply my house, my family, and the comfort I’d always known. Now, it means something deeper. It’s language, warmth, familiar humor, and the feeling of being understood without explanation. I’m grateful for what D.C. taught me because it challenged me and forced me to grow, but coming back taught me something just as important: not every new beginning has to happen somewhere new. Sometimes, growth means returning to the place where you can actually thrive.