In this land of old stories and cherished customs, of the scent of burning wood, where time is measured in handfuls of earth and love is kneaded with patience before turning into a tortilla, my feet cling to this soil like roots to a clay pot.

I did not cross the desert, nor the Río Bravo, nor did I venture into the uncertainty of a one-way journey. I remained tied to the invisible threads that bind me to this place, where my people are, where my dead rest—the only life I have ever known.

My mother, with eyes full of fear and hands weathered by the work of the house, held us close to her bosom, recounting tales of perilous journeys and unyielding deserts: we were born as women.

Her words, laden with wisdom, echoed deep within my soul. The fear of the unknown, of the hardships along the way, outweighed the promise of an uncertain future.

Here, amidst the aromas of beans slowly simmered over a gentle fire and the sound of water boiling for coffee, I was taught to sew and embroider—and I continue to weave stories. Here, I found my place.

In every stitch, in every kernel of ground corn, in every word shared, I build my own story, woven with threads of tradition and hope.

The desert still beckons with its songs of freedom, but my roots have sunk too deeply into this fertile land. Here, among my own, I feel safe, shielded by the love of my family and the warmth of my home.

And although I sometimes feel the pull of the unknown, I choose the certainty of what I have over the uncertainty of what might be.

I am a daughter of migrants, like so many others.

Those of us who remain proudly uphold the indomitable spirit of Mexico, so that, if one day those who ventured north return, they know that the stories of the men and women of clay have not vanished.