This Is Who We Are: A Love Letter to California, My Family, and the Human Spirit

We are Californians. And in this house, that means something.

It means we believe in the dignity of every human being not as a slogan, but as a way of living. It means we understand that diversity is not something to be feared or managed. It is our strength. It is our story. It is the very reason California leads in innovation, in economy, in spirit.

California didn’t become the fourth largest economy in the world by narrowing its heart.
It rose because it opened its arms.

People came here from every corner of the globe not to become the same, but to build something together. That is the California we believe in. That is the California my daughter is being raised in and for.

But today, that vision that promise is under attack.

Not just from outside, but from within.
Not just through words, but through laws.
Not just from strangers, but sometimes from the people we once called family.

We are witnessing the normalization of dehumanization.

It’s happening in school boards, in courtrooms, in quiet dinners where people nod along to cruelty. It’s happening when people talk about stripping the rights of others as if they’re debating zoning permits. It’s happening when a child’s identity becomes someone else’s campaign strategy.

Recently, I read that ICE detained a chaplain from Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. A chaplain someone whose entire purpose is to care for the human spirit in its most vulnerable state.

And my heart immediately went to our daughter’s chaplain.

Not the same one. But a woman who changed our lives.

She wasn’t just part of the care team she was part of our survival. She sat with us when we didn’t know if our daughter would make it. She carried our fears without ever making them feel too heavy. She helped us pray when the words wouldn’t come.

And during all of that, quietly, she was studying for her naturalization exam.

We remember the day she passed. We remember her eyes shining with joy. We remember celebrating as if it were our own milestone because it was. Because she had walked with us through the unthinkable. She had become family.

Our daughter would not be here without immigrants.
That is not political.
That is personal. That is true.

We are here because of immigrants in hospitals, in research labs, in grocery stores, in classrooms. People who give more than they are ever acknowledged for. People who show up every single day for a country that often refuses to show up for them.

So when we talk about who is “allowed” to belong, I think of her.
I think of every hand that held us up when we couldn’t stand.
And I think of my daughter and the kind of world I want her to grow up in.

Let me be clear:
In this house, there is no room for dehumanization.
No room for racism, homophobia, or transphobia.
No room for quiet hatred disguised as “concern” or “tradition.”
No room for people who weaponize difference to feel powerful.

We are not afraid to set boundaries.
But more importantly, we are not afraid to belong to something bigger.
To the work of justice.
To the practice of compassion.
To the belief that being human means protecting what is human in others.

This is not just about what we reject.
This is about what we stand for.
We stand for dignity.
We stand for truth.
We stand for every child’s right to grow up knowing they are safe, they are seen, and they are never “too much” for this world.

We teach our daughter that kindness is not weakness it is a form of resistance.
That love is not soft it is the strongest thing we carry.
That our job is not to tolerate people it is to honor them.

This is who we are.

We are Californians.
We are a family.
We are a small part of a bigger story one where immigrants, healers, protectors, and ordinary people with extraordinary courage are keeping the world stitched together.

And to those who have stood with us who have read, shared, and extended kindness to our family through this Substack thank you. You may not know it, but your solidarity is a kind of shelter. You remind us that we are not alone. You help us keep building, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.

You are part of this home too.

And we are so grateful.

Thank you for reading,

Tatiana