September marks the start of Hispanic/Latinx Heritage Month, which runs through mid-October, and this time of year I typically find myself ruminating on my relationship with myself and my Mexican heritage.

I am the proud daughter of an immigrant. My culture brings me a strong sense of comfort, joy, and pride. And yet, for a long time, I denied myself the right to deeply claim my heritage. I never felt like I was Mexican “enough.” Because my father was white and I share the color of his skin. Because I do not speak Spanish fluently.

And yet, when I am addressed or spoken to in Spanish, I am transported back to my childhood. To get-togethers with my mom, tio, and tia, all sharing stories as rich and delicious as the food on our table. Hearing them all switch back and forth between English and Spanish without missing a beat as they animatedly recalled what it was to grow up in Chicago, after my grandmother Eugenia arrived in the US with them as children.

My appreciation for my culture deepened when I studied transborder and Chicanx literature in college. I saw my family reflected in the stories—and for the first time, I also saw myself.

I have grown to realize and acknowledge that the privileges I experience today are a direct result of the hard work and sacrifices made by my own mother, my grandmother, and my ancestors. To deny this would be to deny them. And so I proudly and boldly claim both my heritage and the complexities that I experience with it—the bicultural duality of having one foot in one culture, and always one foot in another.

I acknowledge that sometimes I still do not feel like “enough” and sit with the discomfort around that. But these days I try to concern myself less with the way others might perceive my relation to my culture, and focus more on my ever-unfolding personal relationship and experiences with it.

My upbringing, deeply rooted in my Mexican heritage, informs every aspect of my life: how I show up at work, how I show up for my family, and how I perceive the world. I would not be the person that I am today without it, and it is woven inexorably into the lives of my own daughters, who are deeply loved by their familia. I am proud of the ways we show up in the world, and how we strive to both honor the familiar ways and also find new ways to honor our roots on a daily basis.

And so with that, I wish you all a very happy Hispanic/Latinx Heritage Month, and leave you with my favorite line from Day of Refugios, a poem by Alberto Álvaro Ríos.

“These women were me,

What I was before me,

So that birthday fireworks in the evening,

All for them,

This seemed right.

In that way the fireworks were for me, too.”