When I was 35, I "became Mexican." I did not have a blood transfusion.  There was no fanfare. My father simply referred to himself as Mexican. It was the second time in my life I had ever heard him call himself Mexican - the first time with pride.

Growing up, I looked different from my siblings. With their vivid, blue eyes and light hair, they resembled my mother's Anglo family.  My dark eyes told a different story of a different lineage - Spanish. Or so we were told.

But the truth snuck in around the corners of our lives and gradually we realized we were Mexican.  Once the truth saw daylight, I longed to walk the streets of México. To speak the language. To absorb the culture.  

Instead I graduated from college and traded the dream for marriage, children and three different careers.  

But México never stopped calling me.  A dream that started 50 years ago finally unfolded into the journey that brought me to Querétaro in March 2026.

My siblings have never experienced this longing. This México-shaped hole in their hearts. Can I truly become Mexican if my siblings are not?   What does it mean to Become Mexican anyway?  Let's find out together.