The Intersection of Emigration and Writing in My Life

I was asked to speak with you about the different ways emigration and writing intersect in my life, and as I reflected on what to say, the first thought that came to mind was that before becoming an immigrant, writing as a form of expression had never crossed my mind. However, a seed was planted early on by my second-grade teacher, who encouraged us to be creative and express ourselves through writing. It was then that I discovered the joy of putting sentences together to create a story. I even remember winning an award for a campaign about dental hygiene, in which a toothbrush and toothpaste convinced the teeth of the importance of brushing. After that, writing faded into the background as a form of self-expression, though my desire to express myself remained strong, and I pursued it through other avenues, mainly dance and painting.

Years passed, and as I neared the end of my psychology studies, I took a class titled Epistemology, Psychoanalysis, and Dialectical Materialism. It was an incredibly challenging course, especially since most of the topics were unfamiliar to me—except for psychoanalysis, which I had studied for years.

One day, as I was struggling to keep up with the lecture, the professor said something that suddenly made everything stop: “The concept of a dog does not bark.” This was his way of explaining an epistemological rupture. In that instant, I felt a burst of joy, almost like a spark of magic lighting up my mind. That simple yet profound sentence struck me with an exhilarating insight—it broke apart the rigid ties between words and meanings. I realized that while we rely on shared meanings to communicate, true understanding often slips through the cracks, emerging in deeply personal and unique ways. It was a revelation, and it filled me with excitement. In the end, we understand what we understand, each of us in our own distinct way. 

This experience resurfaced when I emigrated to the U.S. and faced the challenge of learning a new language in a completely different environment. It wasn’t my first time encountering a foreign language, but it was my first time doing so as an adult, immersed in a new culture. I noticed that the images words conjured in my mind in English were not the same as those in Spanish—an unsettling feeling that left me puzzled. I couldn’t quite grasp why this was happening until that magical phrase—"the concept of a dog does not bark"—took on new significance. Learning English not only expanded my understanding of concepts that didn’t exist in Spanish, but it also opened the door to new interpretations and meanings. My relationship with language became less rigid, more playful, and my imagination blossomed in ways I hadn’t expected because, ultimately, we each understand what we understand.

As a therapist, I’ve always sought to create metaphors for my patients, offering them a space to find their own interpretations. This work isn’t always possible, but when it is, it’s the most creative and rewarding, the art of therapy with the art of writing in deeply meaningful ways.

Up to this point, I’ve discussed how learning a new language expanded my relationship with words. But recently, I encountered an unexpected twist that truly surprised me. While I’ve always known that translating a single word from one language to another often requires multiple words to fully capture its meaning, translating my most recent novel, The Empty Chair, was more challenging than I had anticipated. Writing the book in English had been demanding but translating it into Spanish turned out to be more complex than expected.

 I often say that I didn’t choose the language for this book, the language chose me. I felt an urgent need to speak to young people, particularly in today’s political climate in the U.S., about the dangers of dictatorship, the value of democracy, and how justice and human rights crumble when democracy falls. The story is based on my family’s experience living in Argentina during military rule, and it holds deep personal significance.

During the translation process, I realized how intricate and delicate the task of staying true to the original meaning can be. What’s more, I was struck by how different the book would have been if I had written it in Spanish from the start. This realization made me see that meaning also flows differently between languages gaps. While much can be lost in translation, there’s also much to gain in the cognitive process.

As I mentioned earlier, I’ve always had a deep need for self-expression. By the time I emigrated, my work as a therapist had provided me with a creative outlet space where I could fulfill my calling to assist others. But I lost that space the moment I boarded the plane to the U.S.

With my husband and two young daughters by my side, we set out for a new life, full of excitement yet tinged with fear. It was a time of exhilarating possibilities but also deep isolation. I often felt profoundly lonely, confronting the daily challenges of this unfamiliar world without anyone to share them with. There was no internet, no social media, and international phone calls were far too expensive. In that silence, I turned to writing letters. They became my lifeline, my way of “talking” to the people who mattered most—my friends and mentors. But more than that, I discovered something unexpected: writing allowed me to engage myself in an intimate dialogue. I had so much to express, so many emotions and experiences to share—some thrilling, others terrifying—and through those letters, I found a new way to reflect on and understand my own journey.

Many years later, after earning a Master’s in Social Work, I was able to obtain my license and resume my work as a psychotherapist. Around that time, I had the opportunity to participate in an international meeting on the topic of emigration, culture, and identity. What made this gathering so unique was that all the participants were immigrants themselves. I found it both surreal and amusing. Could you imagine attending a conference on schizophrenia where all the attendees were schizophrenic? That's how this meeting felt to me—like we were discussing emigration while living the experience firsthand. It was an unusual and almost comical situation, but also deeply moving.

I was the last to present on a panel of three. After each presentation, there was applause and a few questions. But when I finished speaking, there was only silence. I thought to myself, “I must have failed.” But soon, I realized that my fellow immigrants were simply so moved by my words that it took them a moment to react. One person finally said to me, “You write to look.” I was stunned. I had never thought of it that way. I hadn’t realized the emotional impact my writing could have.

On the plane back home, for the first time in my life, I thought, “Maybe I could write a book about my immigration experience.” I felt strongly motivated, my mind buzzing with ideas. And so I did. The book, Emigrar en busca de un espacio de amparo (To Emigrate. In search of refuge), was published in Argentina and later in Spain. While some of the topics may now seem outdated due to the rise of the internet and globalization—which have made mobility easier for many, the core of the book remains relevant. It addresses subtle yet profound changes that affect people’s sense of identity—shifts in how we perceive time, social distance, body image, body language, and more. All of these shifts are explored through the lens of a therapist who was deeply changed by the realization that “the concept of a dog does not bark.”

It was during the process of writing and reflecting on my own journey that I began to understand something deeper about my relationship with words. I had always felt a strong need for self-expression, but now I realized that my writing went beyond just expressing my own thoughts—it was helping others feel understood and seen. Through my words, I was giving voice to emotions and experiences that many had struggled to articulate themselves, much like what happens in a therapeutic setting.

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As a child therapist, it then felt natural to write a book for children about immigration, offering families a way to process the emotional and cultural changes that come with such a journey. De Aquí para Allá (From Here to There) reflects the resilience of young children as they face these challenges. My aim was to provide parents with a tool to help their young children through the process.

With the support and encouragement of my readers, I became more committed to writing, now with a clearer sense of purpose.

 I see myself as an accidental writer—a product of my life’s circumstances, using writing as another form of expression as a therapist. A friend once helped me see this more clearly when she said, “You can’t bring all the immigrants into your office, so you’re meeting them where they are.” Her words crystallized my goal, and I NOW think of my books as an extension of my therapeutic work, reaching people beyond the confines of my office.

Since then, I’ve continued to write about topics that move me deeply, often inspired by life’s intense events or the conflicts my patients bring into the consulting room. Suddenly, one or more of these topics will begin to burn inside me, creating an urgency to express them. It is in these moments that I strive to craft a story, a novel that will bring these themes to light, believing they have universal appeal and will invite readers to reflect on themselves in a way that feels more like storytelling than traditional self-help. I explore themes of family dynamics, love, and identity, with a strong focus on self-reflection and emotional growth—often through a feminist lens. My hope is that readers will either lose themselves in the stories or find themselves in them.

These themes are reflected in my novels Entre mujeres (Among Women) and Detrás del silencio (Hidden in Silence).

Currently, I’m working on a series of children’s stories that illustrate their developmental stages. Inspired by my observations as a child therapist, mother, and grandmother, my goal with this series is to foster empowerment and trust in personal growth.

In closing,

I’ve tried to share my journey with you—from my second-grade class in Argentina to becoming a writer in the United States. But to be fully transparent, I still identify more as a psychotherapist who writes than as an author who engages in psychological topics.

My friends tease me about this and often ask, “What do you call someone who has published many books?”