What My Daughter Taught Me About Belonging
From airports to aging parents, from disability to belonging, this is a reflection on family, loneliness, and the urgency of human connection.
I arrived in the Dominican Republic a few days ago to visit my family. What was supposed to be a two-and-a-half-hour journey turned into more than 24—an experience I may write about another day. For now, what stayed with me happened in between, during a layover flight from Panama to the island I call home.
On that plane, almost everyone was traveling with family. I did not see a single passenger flying alone. My daughter and I were seated in the last row, next to a Uruguayan family visiting my small country for the first time. My daughter is autistic, but that never stopped her from being—once again—the best travel companion I could ask for. She endured sleeping on the hard airport floor, waiting endless hours after complications with another airline, and boarding yet another flight without complaint. Instead, she taught me something far more valuable than patience: how to replace frustration and anger with laughter, pizza, and water.
While waiting in Panama, my overly prepared, tech-loving self pulled out a multi-outlet power strip. With few plugs available, I invited anyone who needed to charge their phone to use mine. A Colombian man joked, “Parcerita, you should charge for this service.” But I didn’t want to. I felt good helping—a religious woman, a business traveler heading to Guatemala, two Mexican women, and a man in an electric wheelchair. In those small moments, I felt myself return to who I am: someone who shares.
Much of that came from my daughter’s beautiful ease with the world. She does not care what others think. She exists freely, generously, and without shame.
After arriving, I was embraced by my family for a very special reason: my mother is turning 80. I will not dramatize it, but the truth is unavoidable—time is a countdown. Still, I refuse to let it catch me unprepared. I want to enjoy this strong oak of a woman who does not bend.
Scrolling through social media, however, I was struck by something unsettling. In a world supposedly more connected than ever, people seem profoundly alone. There are now services where one can “rent” a friend or a companion. I saw a photo of a young man graduating in Japan who rented a father to attend the ceremony. Whether true or not, the image stayed with me.
I thought of my neighbor Annette—never married, no children, yet never lonely. She is so full of love that people are constantly visiting her, caring for her. Then I thought of another neighbor, from the northern United States, who has been married three times and has a son who has not visited her in two years. She has retreated into an obsessive attachment to her rescued dog. That, too, is loneliness—despite having family.
The world is full of these contradictions. We reap what we sow, more often than we like to admit. Without judging anyone, I believe this: a mother and a child are a priority. They do not abandon one another.
These reflections have led me to a personal commitment, not as a New Year’s cliché, but as a direction. I want to be a voice for people with disabilities and to defend their violated rights in a society rushing toward isolation. I also wish to, as a journalist, travel to Israel and Jerusalem to tell this side of the world how Jews have welcomed Latin Americans, and to explain the recent history of a land battered by adversity yet marked by extraordinary resilience—despite persistent rejection and the shameless resurgence of antisemitism.
Since discovering my Ashkenazi and Sephardic roots, I have wanted to learn, to honor customs, to remember. That is why I add a pinch of salt to sweet foods—never to forget.
And so I return to where this story began. I do not want to rent a brother, an uncle, or a companion for life’s milestones. I want to walk alongside my family and the friends who have built me, Lego by Lego, reinforcing my heart with lived experience and an unrelenting desire to live fully. To one day receive the names and stories of my Jewish ancestors would be an honor—one that fills me with pride, even in the midst of injustice.
