I'm Tony, Navy vet, psychology student, and future therapist. But before all that, I was just a second-gen kid trying to survive dysfunction and silence. 

Lets dive right in.

The First Time I Felt Split in Two

I remember the first time I realized I didn’t fully belong anywhere. I was five years old,

sitting at the dinner table in my grandparents’ house in El Monte. My mom’s brothers,

my tíos, were blasting A Lighter Shade of Brown in the garage while fixing up their lowriders,

laughing and throwing around slang I barely understood. They wore baggy jeans,

Chuck Taylors, and carried this confidence like they owned the block. I admired them.

They were cool. They were homegrown. They were American, but in a way that was still

proudly Mexican

_{Trying to look happy in this picture on my 8th birthday wasn't easy knowing that when everyone left, the arguing and yelling would start again.} 

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My dad, though? He didn’t get it. He was all ordeña la vaca o no comas. A quiet man with a

heavy accent, thick work boots, and a gaze that said more than words ever could. He had

come to the U.S. at 17 with a dream and nothing else, just calloused hands and the

pressure of feeding a family back in Mexico. He didn’t vibe with hip-hop. He didn’t care

about Jordans or Tupac. He wanted me to work hard, speak Spanish, and act right.

But I was becoming someone in between.

"He Didn't Get It"

By the time I was seven, my Spanish was slipping. By ten, it was gone. When we visited

Mexico that summer, I couldn’t even carry a basic conversation with my own grandparents.

The shame I felt still lingers in my body. My dad’s disappointment was quiet but heavy, 

like he expected more from me, and I had let him down just by being raised here.

At school, I was “too Mexican.” At home, “not Mexican enough.” This is the story so many of

us carry, but few of us tell.

“At school, I was ‘too Mexican.’ At home, ‘not Mexican enough.’”

The Making of a Bicultural Man

Growing up bicultural means constantly code-switching between languages, expectations,

and even facial expressions. At home, my parents did the best they could.

My dad’s strength taught me work ethic, but he also carried trauma he never unpacked.

He left home at twelve to work among men shaped by crime, addiction, and street survival.

He never learned how to express fear or tenderness.

He knew how to survive, not how to feel. When emotions boiled over, they came out as anger.

When I disappointed him, he didn’t explain, it was just el ceño fruncido, the tightened jaw,

the silence.

According to SAMHSA’s 2023 NSDUH Spotlight, 20.6% of Hispanic/Latino adults aged 12 or older experienced any mental illness and 8.3% had a major depressive episode in the past year.

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My mom? She grew up in a house where being the only daughter meant cooking, cleaning,

and being quiet. School wasn’t a priority. Emotions weren’t discussed. Her own pain was

never named. So when I started asking, even non-verbally, “What do I do with all this

confusion in me?” neither of them had the tools to help. They had survived so I could live.

But I needed more than survival. I needed healing. I just didn’t know that yet.

When the Silence Became Too Loud

By high school, I was angry. Not outwardly at first, but inside, I was boiling. Drinking,

driving, fighting. Disrespecting my parents. I didn’t have the vocabulary to say “I feel lost”

or “I’m scared I’ll turn out like my dad.” So I acted out. The streets became my therapy.

The bottle became my silence. The fists became my voice. Until that one dream, esa pesadilla,

that changed everything.

I dreamt the world was ending. That a war had broken out, and I was

riding in the back of a truck. A plane flew overhead and dropped a bomb.  In slow motion,

I watched my life flash before me, every sin, every scar, every moment of wasted potential.

I woke up sobbing. Something broke open in me that night.

The next day, I gave my life to Christ.

The day after that, I walked into a Navy recruiter’s office.

That was the moment my new era began.

Wearing this Navy uniform marked the first day of my new era, when faith and purpose replaced the silence and pain of my past.

Why This Blog Series Exists

In her groundbreaking book Latino Families in Therapy, Celia Jaes Falicov names what

many of us feel but can’t explain: the invisible wounds that come from navigating

migration, loss, and identity confusion. She calls them ambiguous losses, griefs that

aren’t caused by death, but by cultural disconnect, language erosion, and silence within

families.

These losses are deeply Latino.

We lose Spanish and feel shame.

We suppress emotion and call it strength.

“She calls them ambiguous losses, griefs that aren’t caused by death, but by cultural disconnect, language erosion, and silence within families.”

We idolize our parents but secretly resent them for what they couldn’t give us.

We crave healing but don’t know where to start. That’s why I started this blog,

not as a therapist (yet), but as someone who's been through it. Who lived the chaos,

found peace, and now wants to offer that roadmap to others.

This isn’t just a blog. This is a movement.

Nueva Época de Latinos means we don’t have to choose between cultura and sanación.

We honor both. This is for the five-year-old version of me who just wanted to feel understood.

This is for every Latino father trying to connect with a kid who doesn’t speak his language.

This is for every mamá who feels torn between aguantarse and finally saying “I need help.”

The Journey Ahead

Over the next 30 days, we’ll dive into what it really means to be a Latino in therapy, and

how therapy can look like our culture, speak our language (literally and emotionally), and

still challenge the patterns that don’t serve us anymore.

We’ll talk about:

• Why culturally competent therapy matters (Day 2)

• What it means to grow up second-gen and feel split in two (Day 6)

• How familismo both protects and pressures us (Day 12)

• Why faith and healing are not opposites (Day 9)

• And how we can raise our niños with gentleness and intención (Week 3)

We’ll mix stories, research, Spanglish, and soul.

This isn’t about being “woke.” It’s about being whole.

Community Invitation: Let’s Build This Together

If you’re still reading this, it means something in you resonated.

Maybe you’ve felt like a stranger in your own culture. Maybe you’ve carried silence for too

long. Maybe you’ve always wanted to unpack what “manhood” or “familia” means without

feeling judged.

This space is for you.

Drop a comment. Send me a DM. Share this with a primo, a partner, or even your parents if

you’re ready.

Let’s build a community that heals, not just hides.

What Would My Parents Say?

If my dad read this, he’d probably say, “¿Y eso pa’ qué lo dices? Es cosa del pasado.”

But I think he’d also feel relieved, because now, I’m giving voice to things he never had

permission to say. And maybe, just maybe, he’d finally feel seen too.

Closing Line (Bridge to Next Week)

We don’t heal in silence.

We heal in comunidad.

And next week, we’ll talk about the first step: what makes therapy truly helpful for Latinos—

and why it’s not about fixing us, but honoring us.