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I want to share a journey that has defined my life and career, a path I chose to take as a journalist, speaking to people from all over the world and from all walks of life. My story begins in Caracas, Venezuela, a place filled with magic and wonder. From a young age, my parents encouraged me to see the world beyond my home. I remember being seven years old when my father decided to send my sister and me to a summer camp in the United States to experience different cultures. In my childish imagination, I envisioned a camp in Miami or Orlando, where Mickey Mouse lived. Instead, we ended up in Brainerd, Minnesota, a place far from what I had pictured.

Without the internet or social media to prepare us, we arrived to find ourselves in an environment where most kids had blonde hair and blue eyes, unlike us. The camp director introduced us as the "Atencios from Venezuela," and the other children looked at us like we were from another planet. They asked questions like, "Do you know what a hamburger is?" or "Do you go to school on a donkey?" Their curiosity wasn’t mean-spirited; they were just trying to make sense of us through the lens of their own experiences. At seven, being different hurt, but I had to be brave for my little sister, who cried every day at camp. I decided to embrace the American way of life, and we continued this "summer camp experiment" for eight years in different cities across the U.S.

Every time I made a friend, it felt like a special reward. I learned that when you’re different, belonging doesn’t happen spontaneously—you have to work at it. This lesson became clearer in high school when my dad sent me to Connecticut for my senior year. I imagined a perfect American high school experience, like the one from my favorite TV show, "Saved by the Bell." But my assigned roommate, Fatima, a Muslim girl from Bahrain, did not fit into my idea of what would make me popular. At the time, I couldn’t see that I was making Fatima feel the same way I had felt at summer camp—as if she were "the other."

Later, when I participated in a talent show at school, I realized how much I had overlooked Fatima’s uniqueness. I offered a dance class to Shakira’s "Whenever, Wherever," and it stood out against the many violin recitals. I felt special for being different, and I started to think about Fatima and what she could have taught me if I had been open to it. This realization made me understand that when we label someone as "different," it dehumanizes them. They become "the other," not worthy of our time or attention.

My journey took another turn when I returned to Venezuela. I started to see how these experiences were shaping me, giving me a unique sensibility and the ability to see life from different perspectives. I realized the importance of putting myself in others' shoes. This insight is a big reason why I decided to become a journalist, particularly from a region often labeled with stereotypes like "the backyard," "illegal aliens," or "third-world." I wanted to change that narrative. But then the Venezuelan government began censoring the media, and my dad told me, "You have to leave." That’s when I understood what he had been preparing me for all along.

In 2008, I moved to the United States, without a return ticket, on a scholarship to study journalism. My first big assignment was to cover the historic election of President Barack Obama. I felt hopeful that I had come to a place where the concept of "us versus them" was being eroded. But that illusion quickly faded. When Donald Trump was elected president in 2016, it became clear that many still saw others as a threat. The divides between different groups felt deeper than ever.

I covered that election for NBC News, and I wanted to do something different. I watched the election results with undocumented families, who stood the most to lose. When it became clear that Trump was winning, an eight-year-old girl named Angelina, in tears, asked me if her mom would be deported. I hugged her and told her it would be okay, but I didn’t know if it would be. This experience reminded me of myself as a child, feeling like "the other" at summer camp.

My perspective shifted again when my sister was in a serious car accident and was told she might never walk again. Over two years, she underwent 15 surgeries and spent most of that time in a wheelchair. It wasn’t just the physical challenges that were hard; it was how people’s perceptions of her changed. They saw her as "a poor girl in a wheelchair," not as the vibrant, successful person she was. Thankfully, my sister fought like a warrior and is now walking again, but this experience taught me that some differences are difficult to find the good in. However, it also showed me the importance of redefining yourself beyond what others see.

Throughout my career, I have learned that the one thing we all have in common is our humanity. No matter our background, we all want to dream, to achieve, and to be seen for who we truly are. I encourage everyone to celebrate their uniqueness and be curious about others' differences. Let’s strive to be humanists, embracing what makes us unique while recognizing our shared humanity.