Estrellas de Mi Camino: The women who keep me oriented when my compass is actually a baby stroller.

As the new year begins, many of us arrive with mixed emotions. January often comes with expectations: to reset, to push forward, to have clarity about what comes next. But for many in our communities, the new year does not feel like a clean slate. It comes with layers heavy at times, hopeful in others. And often, somewhere in between. This season has reminded me that entering a new year does not always require urgency; sometimes, it requires presence.

In my years working in patient navigation, I learned that one of the most meaningful things we can offer one another is not a solution, but space. Space to explain, to pause, to feel uncertain without being rushed toward an answer. In healthcare settings, I saw how often people arrived carrying far more than a single concern: language barriers, transportation challenges, family responsibilities, fear, and exhaustion. What made the difference was not always how quickly a problem could be resolved, but whether someone felt heard and supported along the way.

Patient navigation taught me that care is relational. It is built through listening, trust, and consistency. It is the quiet work of meeting people where they are and acknowledging that progress looks different for everyone. These lessons have stayed with me beyond my clinical work, shaping how I think about community health, advocacy, and even my approach to my own life in a new year.

This year, as I step into both motherhood and deeper public health work, I find myself thinking about three women who have become my professional and personal north stars, each a guide to me in a different way.

The first is Jennine Mendez, whom I met three years ago at a community outreach fair. Jennine has spent years advocating for Hispanic and minority communities across San Diego County, and through her mentorship, I found my way into the Blue Shield of California Promise Public Policy Committee. More importantly, she showed me what public health looks like in real life, as she never treats this work as abstract; for her, systems exist to serve real families in their most raw moments of vulnerability. Jennine serves as a North Star by consistently showing up for her community, constantly asking, “What else do you need from me?” and “How can I be here for you?” This selfless perspective grounded me in the reality of the people we serve, a lesson I carried forward when Jennine and I collaborated on a case with a Haitian family who spoke only Creole and Spanish. Having navigated two countries they barely knew, they were raising trilingual children while learning entirely new systems, and helping them finally establish medical care was a moment that solidified my own strength.

Jennine continues to be my guide by continually investing in refining my expertise and graciously inviting me to the 2024 Celebrando Latinas conference. There, listening to Erica Alfaro, an award-winning advocate who overcame domestic violence and the hardships of being a farmworker's daughter to author Harvesting Dreams, I felt a renewed sense of empowerment. In that room, Jennine was my North Star once again, showing me that I carry forward the spirit of her work. Because she showed me how to show up for others, I have grown from a woman searching for direction into one capable of returning the favor, lighting the way for other immigrant families who are navigating their own paths toward stability and health.

The second is Celeste Smith, founder of the nonprofit Connect-Teams. I met Celeste when I had just become a mother and was learning to be one on my own, while also being present in my son’s life. Celeste built a community for young mothers who are searching not just for resources, but for connection, reassurance, and friendship. Her organization helps link families to vital health and social supports, but just as importantly, it reminds mothers that they are not meant to do this alone. She models a kind of public health that is deeply human: one that understands survival is easier when it is shared.

Connect-Teams has become my North Star, a fixed point of hope in the often disorienting journey of motherhood. I remember the heavy fog of my own postpartum depletion, a time when I felt my own light flickering out. It was Celeste who stepped in and brought her village with her. She didn't just point me toward mental health resources; she understood that for us, healing is communal. She showed up with those essential pick-me-ups, such as a tray of fresh fruit salad or the comforting sweetness of pan dulce. Only a Latina mother truly understands that this is how we lift each other up, as it is a language of care that feeds the spirit as much as the body. Because Celeste guided me through those trying times with both professional support and that village love, I now feel strong and capable of returning the favor. Today, as I help incoming immigrant mothers navigate access to readily available infant food and mom-and-baby clothing, I realize that Celeste didn't just lead me out of the dark; she taught me how to be a North Star for the next mother searching for her way.

And the third, and most important, is my mother, Monica Sandoval Gonzalez. She was right there in the delivery room with me, helping bring my son into this world in 2025, just as she has been there for all thirty years of my life. My mom is my 24/7 lifeline, my personal 211, my handkerchief for tears, and my warm cobija when I need grounding and guidance. She is a public service professional who shows me what it means to show up, again and again, without hesitation. I see this dedication in her tireless work collaborating to open a new family resource center, a sanctuary where families can visit with their nonprofit organizations, and children can meet with their Head Start or home-based teachers. It is a place of true comfort, with a private lactation room for busy mothers, musical instruments for children to play, and newly arrived families finding vital resources for behavioral health and social factors like housing and transportation. In more critical cases, she ensures they find the necessary assistance for domestic violence. She is my North Star because she transforms the cold machinery of public policy into a sanctuary of human dignity, teaching me that our highest calling is to build the shelter we once needed ourselves.

Aside from her public work, she is the abuela my son loves, the one who is always asking, “¿Ya comiste? Ahora yo lo cuido.” She is the grandmother who blows bubbles to make sure I get that last bite of food in and who sings lullabies to make sure my son knows he is deeply loved. She comes to every single wellness exam appointment with me, holding me as I hold my son; in those appointments, she is my North Star, proving that her advocacy is not just for the community but is the very heart of how she loves her family.

These three women exemplify strength, yet witnessing the landscape they navigate is often deeply disheartening. In the public sphere where they operate, the rules are constantly shifting, and the threat of budget cuts or program closures looms like a shadow over families living in the border region who rely on these resources for daily survival. It is frustrating to see vital lifelines treated as expendable, and I am often struck by the fragility of the systems we depend on. However, it is within this instability that I most admire their unwavering resolve. I look up to their fortitude to stay informed so they can inform others, and their ability to remain relevant and command attention for their cause. They strengthen their work every day to ensure that, despite the noise of conflicting information or political irrelevance, our families remain in the loop and cared for. Having my son grow up with these three anchors in his world reminds me that while the systems may be flawed, the tenacity of those who guard them is what truly holds us together.

 We fight for these systems because we know that behind every policy, every intake form, and every resource link is a living, breathing story that deserves a chance to thrive. Advocacy matters because families need to know that someone is building something sturdy enough to catch them when life gets heavy. It is about transforming a cold process into a warm embrace, ensuring that no mother has to navigate the dark without a light to guide her. When we strengthen these anchors, we aren't just protecting programs; we are protecting the quiet moments of peace a family feels when they finally know they are safe, seen, and supported.

Just as these women have been there for me, our children deserve to grow up knowing that care will be there for them, and so does our community. As we move into this new year, I hope we approach our goals with gentleness. Not every intention needs to be loud or immediate. Sometimes our work is simply to continue: to show up, to stay connected, to care for ourselves and our communities in sustainable ways. Because caring for ourselves is how we stay present for our children, our communities, and the future we are still working to build.