"Learning to Survive in Cuba, Building a Future in Miami": A Story that Resonates with Cuban Exiles

An emotional and detailed post by Cuban writer Dania Ferro has taken social media by storm, capturing the attention of Cubans both on the island and abroad.

In a heartfelt message shared on Facebook, accompanied by a plea to read "until the end," Ferro recounts her arrival in Miami in 2004. She reflects on the stark contrast between life in Cuba and the experience of exile, not just materially but in ways of thinking, dreaming, and envisioning the future.

Ferro arrived in Miami on Thursday, March 4, 2004. Immediately, she highlights the paradox that would define her experience: the geographic closeness yet vast developmental, mental, and lifestyle chasm between the two regions.

The Miami airport provided her first culture shock. Everything was new and overwhelming: the infrastructure, cleanliness, scents, lighting, fashion, and the ubiquitous presence of cellphones, which she had never held before.

Everyday details became symbols of a vastly different world.

She describes the immaculate airport bathrooms, equipped with paper, hand lotion, mirrors, and automatic fixtures, which deeply impressed her due to their stark contrast with what she had known in Cuba.

Upon stepping outside, Miami appeared to her like a "futuristic planet": bustling highways filled with modern cars, towering buildings, and homes with vehicles parked outside. In her hometown of Pino Solo, cars were a rarity, and children played on dirt roads without traffic concerns.

Reuniting with her family was another pivotal moment in her story. Her family awaited her and her grandmother. Her mother's rejuvenated appearance, now integrated into American culture, served as a metaphor for transformation.

"Lili's house was beautiful. Such a lovely bathroom. Soaps, shampoos, conditioners for every hair type. There was an abundance of creams, makeup, perfumes... and paper. Lots of toilet paper everywhere. I'd never have to use newspaper again. What a relief," she noted.

The first meal at a friend’s house from her hometown also left a mark: a table overflowing with fruits, milk, sweets, yogurt, and bread, enough food to satisfy a hunger that had defined her past 19 years.

That moment of abundance also introduced an unexpected sensation. Ferro describes a "pang in the chest" when thinking of the family and friends left behind in Cuba.

The joy of eating without restriction was tinged with the pain of knowing that just 90 miles away, others continued living in scarcity, unable to imagine this alternate reality. It wasn't sadness or guilt but the pain of awakening to a truth that forever altered her worldview.

From there, Ferro introduces a central concept of her story: migratory anxiety.

She explains that her first encounter with anxiety wasn't born from fear or lack, but from abundance, light, and the potential future.

Over the years, she realized that this feeling was her consciousness clashing with reality, the understanding that the differences weren't because some were better than others, but because different systems existed.

In her reflection, Ferro emphasizes that it isn’t about individual superiority but about living in an environment where effort is rewarded, where dreams are achievable without needing permission, where thinking differently isn't dangerous, and where prosperity isn't a sin.

"If only people in Cuba knew that just 90 miles away, life is so different. It's not magic. It's not luck. Often, it's just a change in mentality, a change in the system, a change in opportunities, a change in information," she explained.

Dania highlights a phrase that has deeply resonated with readers: "Cuba and Miami are separated by a mere 90 miles of water, but an ocean of mentality."

The writer then draws a direct comparison between the two realities. In Cuba, she says, you learn to survive and "make do"; in Miami, you learn to plan and build.

"There, talent is stifled. Here, talent is encouraged. There, scarcity is normalized. Here, abundance becomes opportunity. And I'm not just talking about money. I'm talking about mindset. There, you're taught to be content. Here, they ask: what more do you want?" she compared.

Ferro explains that anxiety also arises when realizing it wasn't a lack of abilities, but of opportunities; that there were no personal limits, but a system that imposed them.

"It wasn't that people in Miami were better. It wasn't that they were more valuable. It wasn't that they worked harder. It was that they lived in a system that allows you to dream without asking for permission, where effort is rewarded, where thinking differently isn't dangerous, where prospering isn't a sin," she clarified.

That realization, she notes, doesn't always bring immediate relief; sometimes it hurts, disorients, and generates silent resentment, especially when you deeply love those who remain in the place you left behind.

"Changing countries isn't just crossing borders; it's reprogramming the mind. Because if Cuba changed its system, if it changed its understanding of work, freedom, merit, if it changed the narrative of 'can't do,' if it stopped punishing prosperity and glorifying scarcity... we wouldn't be so far apart," she detailed.

The text advances towards a deeper reflection on migration as a change beyond the physical. Changing countries, she writes, involves reprogramming the mind, unlearning resignation, allowing oneself to desire without guilt, and accepting that one deserves more without feeling like a traitor.

In this process, the mind can take years to cross the same 90 miles the body traveled in minutes.

In one of the most poignant passages, the author asserts that Cuba isn't doomed but "mentally hijacked," and that anxiety often stems not from fear of the future but from the late awakening to a life that could have been different for many loved ones.

Healing, she concludes, isn't just learning to breathe better, but thinking differently.

Dania Ferro concludes her testimony by revealing that this text is part of her new book, "Anxiety, the Crack Where the Light Entered."

Her narrative has struck a deep chord within the Cuban diaspora, not just for its content but because it articulates a shared experience among thousands of emigrants: the blend of gratitude, sadness, and awareness that accompanies the realization of a life possible beyond scarcity.