When I arrived at James Madison University, I started to understand what it truly means to exist in a predominantly white institution (PWI). At JMU, where 70.3% of the student population is White, being Latinx places you in a strange spot. You’re visible-ish. You’re not invisible, but you’re not fully recognized either. It’s like existing in an in-between space, where you’re constantly noticed for being “different,” yet still expected to explain who you are.
It shows up in small moments. Like hearing your name mispronounced, then having to teach people how to say it. Getting asked where you’re actually from. Being looked to as a spokesperson for an entire culture, as if one experience could represent so many. Sometimes, you’re even expected to understand other cultures as if they were your own, just because you’re not white.
But beyond these surface-level interactions, there’s something deeper that often goes unspoken: the pressure we carry from back home.
For many of us, family expectations don’t disappear when we leave, they follow us. There’s pressure to succeed, to make every sacrifice “worth it,” to be the one who makes it out and takes advantage of every opportunity. It’s not always said out loud, but it lives quietly in the back of your mind, shaping every decision. And because of that, it can be harder to fully relax into college life the way others seem to.
For me, being Latina means carrying my values and culture, while constantly trying to navigate and fit into a world that feels unfamiliar and one that my parents may never fully understand. To them, what matters most is honoring the dreams they never had the chance to reach, even as I’m still figuring out what my own dreams are.
While some people move freely, going out whenever they want, living in the moment, you’re calculating. Thinking about money, time, safety, grades, and how to explain it all to your family, who may not fully understand this world you’re in. Even friendships can feel like something you have to balance with everything else carefully.
So what do you do?
You adapt.
You learn to code-switch. You adjust your personality depending on the space you’re in. You figure out which parts of yourself to show, and where. Not because you’re being fake or putting on a show, but because you’re trying to belong without losing yourself in the process.
And somewhere along the way, you realize: you are not as free as you thought.
Freedom here often looks like spontaneity and ease. But for us, it’s layered with responsibility, overthinking, and the constant awareness of everything at stake.
There’s also a quiet contradiction we carry: we are proud of our culture, yet sometimes feel embarrassed by it. We love our food, our language, our music, our families. But there are moments when accents are mocked, when traditions are misunderstood, when our family dynamics feel out of place in more individualistic spaces, where that pride turns into self-consciousness. That embarrassment isn’t rejection. It’s the desire to belong, to move through spaces without being reduced to “other.”
Being in a PWI is full of contradictions. You’re adapting while holding on. You’re proud, yet self-aware. You’re deeply connected to where you come from while learning to navigate spaces that don’t always feel like they were made for you.
And still, there’s something powerful in that.
Because even through all of this, even when it doesn’t feel cohesive, even when no one else can see it, you are existing in both worlds and carrying them at the same time, learning to balance it all at once.