The Journey Home: How the Sea, the Sand, and My Dominican Roots Shaped a Life of Healing and Renewal

There are places that live in us long after we leave them. For me, the Dominican Republic is one of those places — a landscape of memory, spirit, and return. I’ve spent a lifetime moving between worlds: North and South, land and sea, past and present. Each crossing has taught me that belonging isn’t about where we’re born, but where our soul finds stillness. This is a story about home — and the way we carry it with us.

I was born in New York City.

When people asked, “Where are you from?”

I would always say, “I’m Dominican.”

Some insisted, “But you were born in New York.”

And I would reply, “I may have an American passport, but I am Dominican.”

Both were true.

I am American—yet rooted in Dominican soil, the daughter of Dominican parents.

From an early age, I was enchanted by the landscapes of Quisqueya: the lush Cibao Valley, the misty hills of Jarabacoa and Constanza, the endless beaches that crown the island’s coasts.

When I was little, my family took long drives from the Cibao to the beaches of Samaná. We’d stop along the way for sodas and bathroom breaks, and by the time we arrived, the sun would be high, the sea still, and the air thick with salt and coconut. More often than not, we were the only ones there. Those days were marked by silence, sunlight, and the ocean’s embrace.

There were no resorts then—just sand, sky, and water. The purpose was simple and pure: to be in communion with nature.

As an adult, I kept returning to Laguna Gri Gri, Playa Ballenas, Playa Rincón, Las Galeras. While others flocked to the east for entertainment, I kept seeking stillness. Because we don’t need more noise—we need more healing.

We need to breathe clean air, to eat food that nourishes, to rest deeply, to surrender to the natural rhythm of the world.

Not long ago, I took a whale-watching trip off the North Atlantic coast. After hours at sea, the whales appeared—graceful giants gliding through the waves, some with their calves. The marine biologist on board explained that these whales feed in the Atlantic and migrate each year to the Bay of Samaná to give birth before returning north.

She pointed out one called Sal (Salt), recognizable by a scar along her fin—an old wound from a ship’s propeller. Sal had given birth seventeen times, each journey carrying her from the northeastern United States to the Dominican Republic.

Her story stirred something in me.

I felt bound to her—as though her migration mirrored my own.

Like Sal, I have traveled that same route many times, seeking rest, healing, and belonging in the waters that raised me.

Spirit, Sand & Sea

Since my childhood in Washington Heights, I’ve felt the pull of both sea and sand—of roots and tides—the deep rhythm of ancestry mingled with the promise of new shores.

As a first-generation Latina of Dominican heritage, I inherited stories of migration, resilience, and reinvention. Those stories became the ground of my creative and professional life.

Today, through Rosannamaría Studio and Spirit, Sand & Sea, I stand at the intersection of art, leadership, and healing.

Spirit is the canvas. In my studio, I paint with oils—but also with memory, myth, and the sacred feminine. My paintings are meditations in color and form, reflections on grief, hope, transformation, and belonging.

Sand is the ground of community and leadership—the steady, lived practice of building inclusive systems and spaces. My career in education has been about this: creating structures that hold people with humanity and courage.

Sea is the cycle of return—the fluid threshold where endings become beginnings. Through retreats, coaching, and creative workshops, I invite others to dive beneath and resurface renewed.

Like the whales that migrate between the Atlantic and Samaná, I’ve learned that home isn’t fixed—it’s a rhythm.

It’s the journey between what shaped us and what we are becoming.

It’s the courage to keep returning, again and again, to ourselves.

When we reclaim our voice and honor our story, we reclaim our power.

And in that reclamation, we find our way home.

🐳 Thank you for reading.

Did this story speak to you?

I believe we all carry migrations within us — stories of leaving and returning, of loss and becoming. If you felt that pull while reading, I invite you to stay connected.

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