Community Voices: Notes from Adams County

Where Water Changes Direction: A Story Between Sea and Mountains 

By Fernanda Wankel

There are decisions we don’t make with the mind, but with the heart.

After more than a decade living in the Mexican Caribbean, where turquoise waters taught me to adapt, to flow, and to find beauty in change, I met Ryan.

After sharing my beautiful Mexico with him through trips across different states, we realized we wanted to keep discovering everything together. So when I traveled to Colorado for the first time, he proposed in Loveland Pass, along the Continental Divide , that invisible line where water chooses its path: one side flowing toward the Pacific, the other toward the Atlantic. One origin, two different directions.

And that’s how we began our life in Denver.

Just like that, I traded turquoise waters for mountain peaks.

In many ways, my story began to mirror that same divide.

Two worlds live within me, two ways of being, of feeling, of belonging — and two languages through which I understand and express the world.

Ryan had already been living in Denver for several years, and he slowly introduced me to Colorado, opening the doors to his world.

In those landscapes, I began to understand Colorado’s deep connection to the land; from rural spaces to urban life. The water flowing from melting snow, and sometimes returning to the surface as warm hot springs after traveling deep within the earth, became a quiet reminder that it doesn’t matter where you come from; what matters is that you keep moving forward.

Turning 40 in Colorado felt like reclaiming something essential, a reminder that wildness is part of my nature. In the mountains, I connected with the essence of the wolves, trusting my instincts and hearing what lives beyond words.

In that stillness, something in me quietly changed. As I began dreaming in both English and Spanish, I realized I was becoming someone new — two worlds slowly coming together.

But belonging did not come easily.

I arrived in Denver after the pandemic, at a time when many social circles were already formed. People were focused on building their lives, and making space in those circles was not easy.

It took me more than a year to find friendships, real, meaningful connections with people willing to share time and presence.

For the first time, I felt what it means not to fully belong, to be reminded that I am not from here. Because of my accent. Because of my origin. Because I didn’t always understand the jokes.

At the same time, the immigration process left its mark. Rebuilding my life on paper, proving who I am, forces me to look back; to reconnect with my past in order to begin again in a new country.

And that became one of the most important lessons of my life.

Learning to recognize my worth; not by how others see me, but by who I truly am.

Colorado didn’t adopt me overnight. But little by little, it did.

Today, I call it home, surrounded by a community where I feel loved and connected. And through that journey, Kuma and Ryan became my best companions, the ones I love sharing this life with.

Stepping outside of our comfort zone is worth it. It allows us to experience new ways of thinking, to connect with others, and to share cultures and traditions.

I come from warm, turquoise waters that taught me how to flow. And I now live among mountain waters that taught me how to choose my path.

A single drop, in community, can become an ocean.

And today, more than ever, I believe this: together, we are America, not just a country, but a continent, a collection of stories, people, and journeys.

If you can, reach out to someone who is not from here, remind them they belong, that they are seen. Because sometimes, the smallest act of care is what transforms a place into home.

Te amo, Colorado.