Exploring the Duality of Identity, Connection, and Belonging
It’s 7:30 in the morning, and I’m walking along the beach in San Juan, recording this voice note to capture my thoughts and feelings. The air is crisp but warming as the tide pulls back, leaving behind shimmering pools of water you might miss if you came later in the day. People are walking their dogs, smiling and saying, “Buen día,” as they pass—because here in Puerto Rico, you acknowledge one another.
On the shore, some are meditating, others doing yoga, their mats facing the waves as the sound of the tide blends with the calls of seabirds. Children are playing paddleball near the water’s edge, and the atmosphere feels unhurried, almost serene. There’s a sense of balance here, a rhythm to life that’s so different from the mainland. Puerto Rico doesn’t just encourage connection—it demands it.
Even the way people interact with nature feels unique. I think about walking through a park here, past a cluster of pigeons. On the mainland, the birds would scatter the moment you got close, flying away in fear. But here, they stay put, unbothered, as if they trust the people walking by. It’s a small thing, but it says so much about the energy of this place. There’s an ease, a mutual respect for the world around you, that feels deeply personal.
I’m visiting my grandmother in Villalba, a quiet town in the mountains surrounded by banana leaves heavy with plantains. She calls herself a jíbara—a term for someone deeply connected to Puerto Rico’s rural traditions. Her home feels like a snapshot of resilience, simplicity, and history. My grandmother spends most of her days alone since my grandfather passed ten years ago, but to her, she’s never really alone. “I’m with God,” she told me yesterday, holding her rosary beads. Her faith and self-sufficiency are unshakable, and they carry the kind of quiet power that’s shaped this island and, in ways I’m only beginning to understand, me.
I’m a Chicago Rican, born and raised in Chicago by Puerto Rican parents who left the island during a time of economic instability. They came looking for better opportunities, leaving behind a place they loved but knew wasn’t sustainable. Like many Puerto Ricans who moved to the mainland, they were met with discrimination and ignorance. To outsiders, we were just “Latinos,” lumped into one group with little understanding of the rich diversity or the fact that Puerto Ricans are U.S. citizens.
At home, my parents created a Puerto Rican bubble. The music, the food, the TV shows—it was all part of our daily lives. But they also prioritized survival. They pushed us to speak English and assimilate, which meant my siblings and I never became fluent in Spanish. I could listen and understand it, but I couldn’t fully speak it. For a long time, I felt embarrassed by that, like I wasn’t “Puerto Rican enough.”
But now, as an adult, I’m rewriting that narrative. I’ve started learning to speak not just Spanish but Puerto Rican Spanish—the dialect I grew up hearing in my parents’ voices, in the music I love, and in the stories my grandmother tells me.
Visiting Puerto Rico now, I feel a mix of pride, longing, and discomfort. There’s a deep connection I can’t fully explain—an emotional pull to a place I never lived in but have always felt was home. It’s something I think many Chicago Ricans, New York Ricans, and first-gen Puerto Ricans feel. We’re tied to the island through our parents, through stories, music, and traditions, but we also carry this sense of not being “enough.” We grew up in a space between two worlds, constantly navigating what it means to belong.
When I’m here, though, I feel that belonging. People embrace me when they learn about my grandmother in Villalba, or when they hear that I was raised on Puerto Rican music and culture. They remind me that this is my home too, even if I didn’t grow up here.
But being here also makes me think about what it means to love a place that’s struggling. Puerto Rico is part of the United States, but it’s treated like an afterthought. Economic instability, systemic neglect, and the displacement of Puerto Ricans are constant realities. More people are leaving the island now than ever before, and it’s heartbreaking. Bad Bunny’s latest album, Identidad Más Fotos, captures this so powerfully. He asks, “What is Puerto Rico without Puerto Ricans?” It’s a question I can’t stop thinking about.
His album isn’t just music; it’s a call to action. The beats, the references, the stories—it’s a love letter to the island and a reminder of what’s at stake. It’s no wonder people are creating TikTok trends, sharing their pride, posting photos of the iconic plastic chairs on the album cover, or showing their parents and saying, “Yeah, they did it right—look at me.”
As I walk these beaches, I think about my own journey as a Puerto Rican tech founder. I’m someone who’s benefitted from opportunities my parents didn’t have, who has built a career on the mainland but feels pulled back to the island. What does it mean to contribute to this place in a meaningful way? To bring something back without adding to the gentrification or displacement that so many Puerto Ricans are already facing?
There’s so much potential here. The people are bilingual, resilient, and resourceful. The culture is rich with creativity and history. Puerto Rico could be a driving force in the global economy if it were given the tools and resources it deserves. And yet, it’s not just about what the island can do—it’s about who we are as a people.
For me, this trip has been a reminder of my roots and my responsibility. My parents gave me a connection to Puerto Rico, even if they didn’t always know how to nurture it. They raised me to navigate the challenges of being Puerto Rican on the mainland, and now I have the privilege of figuring out how to honor that while also forging my own path.
This island isn’t just a place; it’s a part of me. It’s in the music blasting from passing cars, in the food that feels like home, in my grandmother’s stories, and even in the waves crashing against the shore. It’s a place where I feel more like myself than anywhere else, and it’s a reminder that being Puerto Rican isn’t about perfection—it’s about connection.
