By Fiorella Fuenmayor
We’ve all felt alone in a room full of people. At least, I know I have. I’ve been the only woman, the only immigrant, the only Latina, the youngest one and the only person of colour. It’s an isolating feeling, one that’s hard to explain if you’ve never been in that position.
When I started my internship in college, I felt incredibly proud. An intern at a big corporation. Surrounded by the best people in the business, with so much to learn. I was hungry for it. I believed all my accomplishments had led me there, that all the hard work had finally paid off. And I was happy to have earned it, or so I thought.
On my first day, after meeting everyone I would be working with, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was there to check a diversity box. Everyone looked the same, except me. Maybe I was underestimating myself. Maybe I really was the best candidate they interviewed. Maybe I was overthinking it. Still, I couldn’t help but feel different.
That was the first time I’ve ever felt like I was alone. It was a challenging time in my life. I was constantly trying to blend in at work, school and with my friends, even when I didn’t feel like I could. Trying not to feel ignored and trying to have a voice. Most days felt like swimming against the current.
Like many immigrants, I carry the invisible baggage that comes with starting over somewhere new. I deal with the uncomfortable questions everyday, with people butchering my name—again and again, or from having to repeat myself because of my accent, to spelling my name every time I order a coffee. At the same time, the barista looks at me like I’ve just asked for the distance from Earth to the moon. Sometimes I just use a fake name to avoid the hassle altogether:
Mine is “Ella.” Short. Simple. Easier.
Over time, it can feel like your identity is slowly fading, like the person you used to be is mutating into someone who can blend in.
This is what happens when you live in a country with a culture and language so different from your own. It’s exhausting. And unless you’re surrounded by people who have lived through the same, no one really gets it.
Over time, it can feel like your identity is slowly fading, like the person you used to be is mutating into someone who can blend in. You become a chameleon, just trying to survive. Because when you’re the only one who’s different, it can feel as though a stranger has walked into the room. An intruder.
That quiet discomfort often shows up in moments that are supposed to feel intimate. Times when I feel out of place, hyper-aware of every look, almost hearing the unspoken questions: Who is she? What is she doing here? When all I’m trying to do is exist, to take up less space and to be a little more invisible.
Those are the moments when I just nod along, trying to be a little more like them. When I overexplain who I am and where I come from, as if I need to justify my presence.
So I kept asking myself: How do I embrace this? How do I stay true to myself without trying to live up to unrealistic expectations?
I’ve learned, slowly, that it depends on how you choose to see it. In this world, you have to use every advantage you can. When I feel insecure about my accent, I remind myself that being bilingual gives me the lead to communicate in ways beyond the norm. When I feel insecure about being the youngest at work, I remember that I reached the same level as my peers more quickly. And when I still feel like the only one who’s different at gatherings, I remind myself of where my roots stem from.
I’ve done all of this without the privileges others had. And that’s something to admire, not something to hide.
I have to actively reassure myself that I’m allowed to take up space. That I have a voice. That I’m not a diversity box to be checked. The parts of me that once made me feel less are now my strengths. They give me a perspective no one else in the room has.
Once I internalized that my differences weren’t flaws, I began to make peace with myself. I stopped hiding. I stopped reshaping myself to feel more acceptable. I realized that my path was never meant to look like anyone else’s, and that comparison only pulls you further away from who you are.
The truth is, most people aren’t watching as closely as we think they are. And even if they are, their opinions don’t get to define us. Everything that once made me feel “different” is now something I carry with pride. These differences sharpen my perspective. They give me depth, resilience and strength.
You can embody power, even when you’re the only one in the room.
Riadh Magazine 
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