The trip wasn’t planned. My husband and I were supposed to spend the holiday season at home, managing the usual whirlwind of schedules, work, and commitments. But then the Dominican merengue songs started playing—the ones that seemed designed to nudge Dominicans near and far. Lyrics promising how “Navidad no será Navidad si no estás aquí” (“Christmas won’t be Christmas if you’re not here”) hit me harder than they should have. ” Volvio Juanita” is a heart-tugging song about a Dominican York woman who returned home and felt alive and loved.  For clarification, a Dominican-York is a Dominican living outside of the Dominican Republic, whether in NYC or any other country.

The first time I cried, I shook it off. The second time, I thought that was weird, But the third time, it felt like one time too many. I missed my dad—my favorite person—much more than usual. He’s 90 now, and I’m getting older too. Before I could dry my tears again, my husband looked at me and said, “We’re going to the Dominican Republic.”

For Dominican-Americans like me—and many high-achieving people from underserved diverse backgrounds—pursuing education, financial stability, and professional success isn’t just about reaching a certain societal standing. It’s about something far more personal: the ability to fly home. To board a plane, return to your roots, and be with the people who made you whenever life demands it.

My husband and I often catch each other in moments we would have once considered “fancy” while growing up—sitting in an airport lounge, booking a last-minute international flight, or simply not having to hesitate over an opportunity to go home. Without fail, we look at each other, cackling, and say: “This is why I went to college.”

I didn’t chase white picket fences or luxury as the ultimate goal. Those things, as it turns out, came with the package. My pursuit of a better life—and my continued pursuit today—has always been about options. Options to show up for my dad, to sit next to him in our homeland, and feel tethered to something bigger. Options to step away from the grind when my heart is heavy and I need to reconnect. So many people in our communities, including the underserved places we come from, have never had these options.

For me, the privilege of choice is the ultimate achievement. When I boarded that plane, I carried more than just a suitcase. I carried the weight of sacrifice, the fruits of resilience, and the profound gift of showing up when it matters most to me.  Because at the end of the day, home isn’t just a place. It’s the people waiting to welcome you with open arms, the songs that remind you who you are, and the quiet certainty that you’ve built a life with room for what truly matters.

Many people talk about pursuing financial stability, a college education, or a professional life as if chasing quixotic dreams or luxurious longings. For Dominican Americans like me—and any high achievers from underserved backgrounds—it’s not about grand gestures or shiny milestones. It’s about many little things that are far more personal: the ability to fly home when your heartaches, the option to help a family member out when life throws them a curveball, not having to wait for the movie to come out on DVD for your family to see it finally—and ordering the popcorn while you’re at it. Even something as simple as having bills on autopay, an unimaginable treat based on many of my clients’ upbringing, becomes a quiet symbol of success. Those small moments carry a weight that money alone can’t define.