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Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
“It doesn’t matter how much you love your home, you can’t raise your kids in a place where death is waiting around
the corner.
Astrid was just shy of turning six when she left El Salvador. She doesn’t remember everything. Just fragments, impressions, what she calls “memories of memories.” But what she does remember is that her family tried everything to stay safe. “My mom treated it like there was a curfew all the time. We weren’t allowed to walk on the streets, and my school had these giant, concrete walls around it.”
Her parents were both in the medical field, her mom and dad were doctors, and they built relationships with everyone, even gang members. “One of my mom’s patients was a leader in two of the gangs. My dad once helped a guy who’d been shot on Christmas. He got him to the hospital. After that, the gang told him, ‘Your family will never have to worry about us.’”
Still, violence edged closer. Astrid recalls the story her mother told her later about the day she didn’t ride the school bus. “She had hired a driver who took me and some other girls to school. That day, I stayed home. Someone tried to steal his fake silver necklace, even though it didn’t have any monetary value, but it meant something to him. He pleaded, ‘Please, it’s not worth anything.’ But they shot up the bus anyway.”
He died. Some of the girls were hit. That was the moment her mom decided: We’re leaving. The plan was for the family to reunite in Kansas. The girls would go west, the boys east, and everyone would land in the middle. But like most migration stories, the plan didn’t hold. “My dad didn’t get approved for years. We were without him for five years. He went to New York to see his brothers after not seeing them for 30 years.”
Even in New York, Astrid felt different. “People would ask, ‘Where are you from?’ and say the name of a town. I’d be the only one saying a whole other country.” Her boldness helped her adjust. “On my first day of school, the teacher said my name and pointed at me. I didn’t realize I didn’t speak English yet — I just stood up and said in full Spanish, ‘Gracias a todos, feliz de estar aquí.’ And everyone just stared.”
Looking back now, Astrid holds deep respect for both her parents — for her father’s steady faith, and her mother’s fire. “My dad’s the type who says, ‘It is what it is, and we’ll make it through.’ My mom’s like, ‘No. That’s not how the world should be — and I’ll change it.’”
Even after so much time, there’s still tension in the air — the quiet legacy of a life uprooted. Her mother once told her she didn’t want to leave El Salvador because “this was supposed to be our life.” But when safety fails you at school, in your neighborhood, on a bus, “it doesn’t matter how much you love your home,” Astrid said. “You can’t raise your kids in a place where death is waiting around the corner.”
She doesn’t frame her story as one of tragedy — it’s more complicated than that. It’s about choice when there were no good choices. And it’s about a mother who saw the worst coming and refused to let it take her kids. “She just had this drive,” Astrid said. “If she wanted something done, she made it happen. She wasn’t going to wait for someone to save us. She was the plan.”
I AM A PROTECTOR.
Join the story
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
“If it wasn’t safe near the school, it wasn’t safe anywhere” A Story of El Salvador, Survival, and Starting Over
Astrid was just shy of turning six when she left El Salvador. She doesn’t remember everything. Just fragments, impressions, what she calls “memories of memories.” But what she does remember is that her family tried everything to stay safe. “My mom treated it like there was a curfew all the time. We weren’t allowed to walk on the streets, and my school had these giant, concrete walls around it.”
Her parents were both in the medical field — her mom and dad were doctors — and they built relationships with everyone, even gang members. “One of my mom’s patients was a leader in two of the gangs. My dad once helped a guy who’d been shot on Christmas. He got him to the hospital. After that, the gang told him, ‘Your family will never have to worry about us.’”
Still, violence edged closer. Astrid recalls the story her mother told her later — the day she didn’t ride the school bus. “She had hired a driver who took me and some other girls to school. That day, I stayed home. Someone tried to steal his fake silver necklace — it didn’t have any monetary value, but it meant something to him. He pleaded, ‘Please, it’s not worth anything.’ But they shot up the bus anyway.”
He died. Some of the girls were hit. That was the moment her mom decided: We’re leaving. The plan was for the family to reunite in Kansas. The girls would go west, the boys east, and everyone would land in the middle. But like most migration stories, the plan didn’t hold. “My dad didn’t get approved for years. We were without him for five. He went to New York to see his brothers after not seeing them for 30 years.”
Astrid’s mom shouldered it all. When their living situation turned volatile — after a family member trashed everything they owned — she swept her children into a room, closed the door, and said, “Play with the dog.” Astrid didn’t learn until years later that the destruction had been over a rumor. “To me, it just seemed like my aunt went crazy one day. But that was my mom — she just made shit happen and kept us out of it.”
Even in New York, Astrid felt different. “People would ask, ‘Where are you from?’ and say the name of a town. I’d be the only one saying a whole other country.” Her boldness helped her adjust. “On my first day of school, the teacher said my name and pointed at me. I didn’t realize I didn’t speak English yet — I just stood up and said in full Spanish, ‘Gracias a todos, feliz de estar aquí.’ Everyone just stared.”
She noticed differences in perception too. “In high school, we had a prompt: ‘Someone kicks a dog on the street.’ Everyone was like, ‘How dare they?’ But I was like… is the dog okay? Me and this kid from Bolivia were the only ones who thought, maybe the dog had something. Dogs on the street back home weren’t safe like they are here.”
Looking back now, Astrid holds deep respect for both her parents — for her father’s steady faith, and her mother’s fire. “My dad’s the type who says, ‘It is what it is, and we’ll make it through.’ My mom’s like, ‘No. That’s not how the world should be — and I’ll change it.’”
Even after so much time, there’s still tension in the air — the quiet legacy of a life uprooted. Her mother once told her she didn’t want to leave El Salvador because “this was supposed to be our life.” But when safety fails you at school, in your neighborhood, on a bus, “it doesn’t matter how much you love your home,” Astrid said. “You can’t raise your kids in a place where death is waiting around the corner.”
She doesn’t frame her story as one of tragedy — it’s more complicated than that. It’s about choice when there were no good choices. And it’s about a mother who saw the worst coming and refused to let it take her kids. “She just had this drive,” Astrid said. “If she wanted something done, she made it happen. She wasn’t going to wait for someone to save us. She was the plan.”
I AM A PROTECTOR.
I AM A PROTECTOR.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Scroll to read more
“It doesn’t matter how much you love your home, you can’t raise your kids in a place where death is waiting around
the corner.
Astrid was just shy of turning six when she left El Salvador. She doesn’t remember everything. Just fragments, impressions, what she calls “memories of memories.” But what she does remember is that her family tried everything to stay safe. “My mom treated it like there was a curfew all the time. We weren’t allowed to walk on the streets, and my school had these giant, concrete walls around it.”
Her parents were both in the medical field, her mom and dad were doctors, and they built relationships with everyone, even gang members. “One of my mom’s patients was a leader in two of the gangs. My dad once helped a guy who’d been shot on Christmas. He got him to the hospital. After that, the gang told him, ‘Your family will never have to worry about us.’”
Still, violence edged closer. Astrid recalls the story her mother told her later about the day she didn’t ride the school bus. “She had hired a driver who took me and some other girls to school. That day, I stayed home. Someone tried to steal his fake silver necklace, even though it didn’t have any monetary value, but it meant something to him. He pleaded, ‘Please, it’s not worth anything.’ But they shot up the bus anyway.”
He died. Some of the girls were hit. That was the moment her mom decided: We’re leaving. The plan was for the family to reunite in Kansas. The girls would go west, the boys east, and everyone would land in the middle. But like most migration stories, the plan didn’t hold. “My dad didn’t get approved for years. We were without him for five years. He went to New York to see his brothers after not seeing them for 30 years.”
Even in New York, Astrid felt different. “People would ask, ‘Where are you from?’ and say the name of a town. I’d be the only one saying a whole other country.” Her boldness helped her adjust. “On my first day of school, the teacher said my name and pointed at me. I didn’t realize I didn’t speak English yet — I just stood up and said in full Spanish, ‘Gracias a todos, feliz de estar aquí.’ And everyone just stared.”
Looking back now, Astrid holds deep respect for both her parents — for her father’s steady faith, and her mother’s fire. “My dad’s the type who says, ‘It is what it is, and we’ll make it through.’ My mom’s like, ‘No. That’s not how the world should be — and I’ll change it.’”
Even after so much time, there’s still tension in the air — the quiet legacy of a life uprooted. Her mother once told her she didn’t want to leave El Salvador because “this was supposed to be our life.” But when safety fails you at school, in your neighborhood, on a bus, “it doesn’t matter how much you love your home,” Astrid said. “You can’t raise your kids in a place where death is waiting around the corner.”
She doesn’t frame her story as one of tragedy — it’s more complicated than that. It’s about choice when there were no good choices. And it’s about a mother who saw the worst coming and refused to let it take her kids. “She just had this drive,” Astrid said. “If she wanted something done, she made it happen. She wasn’t going to wait for someone to save us. She was the plan.”
The struggle that it took my parents to come here and become successful in a foreign place is something that is always on my mind.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Scroll to read more
“It doesn’t matter how much you love your home, you can’t raise your kids in a place where death is waiting around
the corner.
Astrid was just shy of turning six when she left El Salvador. She doesn’t remember everything. Just fragments, impressions, what she calls “memories of memories.” But what she does remember is that her family tried everything to stay safe. “My mom treated it like there was a curfew all the time. We weren’t allowed to walk on the streets, and my school had these giant, concrete walls around it.”
Her parents were both in the medical field, her mom and dad were doctors, and they built relationships with everyone, even gang members. “One of my mom’s patients was a leader in two of the gangs. My dad once helped a guy who’d been shot on Christmas. He got him to the hospital. After that, the gang told him, ‘Your family will never have to worry about us.’”
Still, violence edged closer. Astrid recalls the story her mother told her later about the day she didn’t ride the school bus. “She had hired a driver who took me and some other girls to school. That day, I stayed home. Someone tried to steal his fake silver necklace, even though it didn’t have any monetary value, but it meant something to him. He pleaded, ‘Please, it’s not worth anything.’ But they shot up the bus anyway.”
He died. Some of the girls were hit. That was the moment her mom decided: We’re leaving. The plan was for the family to reunite in Kansas. The girls would go west, the boys east, and everyone would land in the middle. But like most migration stories, the plan didn’t hold. “My dad didn’t get approved for years. We were without him for five years. He went to New York to see his brothers after not seeing them for 30 years.”
Even in New York, Astrid felt different. “People would ask, ‘Where are you from?’ and say the name of a town. I’d be the only one saying a whole other country.” Her boldness helped her adjust. “On my first day of school, the teacher said my name and pointed at me. I didn’t realize I didn’t speak English yet — I just stood up and said in full Spanish, ‘Gracias a todos, feliz de estar aquí.’ And everyone just stared.”
Looking back now, Astrid holds deep respect for both her parents — for her father’s steady faith, and her mother’s fire. “My dad’s the type who says, ‘It is what it is, and we’ll make it through.’ My mom’s like, ‘No. That’s not how the world should be — and I’ll change it.’”
Even after so much time, there’s still tension in the air — the quiet legacy of a life uprooted. Her mother once told her she didn’t want to leave El Salvador because “this was supposed to be our life.” But when safety fails you at school, in your neighborhood, on a bus, “it doesn’t matter how much you love your home,” Astrid said. “You can’t raise your kids in a place where death is waiting around the corner.”
She doesn’t frame her story as one of tragedy — it’s more complicated than that. It’s about choice when there were no good choices. And it’s about a mother who saw the worst coming and refused to let it take her kids. “She just had this drive,” Astrid said. “If she wanted something done, she made it happen. She wasn’t going to wait for someone to save us. She was the plan.”
Scroll to read more