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My path into the world of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion wasn’t one I planned, but it’s the only one I could have walked.
It all began with a childhood far removed from the life I live today. I was born in a village of 100 people, so remote it was self-governed. The world beyond that tiny village seemed like a fairy tale, a distant dream that was not reachable.
Our parents were the school’s cooks and cleaners. We had two teachers who taught all of us—three grades in one room. As a four-year-old, I walked 45 minutes to school each day.
There was only one family who lived farther out than me, so we formed a sort of walking caravan, picking each other up along the way. We were a community—small, close-knit, and entirely dependent on one another. The air was fresh, the water was clean, and the land was abundant. It was a world where survival was a shared effort, where each day’s work mattered to the whole.
But my parents knew we deserved more than that. They wanted something better for us—better education, better opportunities, a better life. At just seven years old, I had to leave everything I knew behind. The transition was brutal. The new city, with its polluted air, made me sick. The kids at school bullied me relentlessly. They didn’t understand where I was from, and I didn’t know how to explain it.
‘I didn’t want anyone to taint my memories’
I learned early to hide my roots. Not because I was ashamed, but because I cherished the life I had left behind. I didn’t want anyone to taint my memories. I was determined to make something of myself—not just for me, but for my parents, who sacrificed so much for my future.
They never let me forget why we moved. They reminded me that all the things we gave up would be for nothing if I didn’t deliver on the promise of education. So I worked, tirelessly.
I became the top of my class. For eight straight years. And as the years went by, the bullying changed. No longer was it about my heritage; it was about my grades. They didn’t understand my drive. They didn’t know what I had given up, what I had lost. But I couldn’t accept anything less. I couldn’t accept mediocrity because I had seen what I was capable of, and I wasn’t going to let my past be an excuse for anything less than excellence.
That drive led me to earn scholarships and pursue higher education in a new country, the U.S. Once again, I was far from home, working toward something bigger than myself. I carried an 18-credit load to afford the credits I needed to pursue my CPA license. It was a relentless pursuit, but it felt necessary—my family’s sacrifice demanded it.
I wanted to lead authentically
After college, I started my career in accounting in Madison. It was there that I began to realize something: I didn’t want to compartmentalize my life any longer. I didn’t want to keep my personal experiences separate from my professional self. I wanted to lead authentically. I wanted to be a financial professional who was Latina, not just in the background of some corporate structure, but as someone who could manage and lead with my identity intact.
That desire led me to co-found the Latino Professional Association. It was there I began to truly understand the struggles of second-generation Latines, the forced assimilation so many of us face. As I listened to their stories, I found myself more and more drawn into this work of sharing my own learning, supporting others, and finding ways to make our voices heard. The more I learned, the more I felt compelled to dedicate myself to the work of inclusion, to help others overcome the challenges of access, opportunity, and the things that can’t be measured in dollars.
The current weaponization of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion reminds me of the bullies I’ve faced throughout my life. There are people everywhere who feel threatened by other ways of thinking, living, working, leading, and existing. These people seek to impose their will upon others, to force us into submission. They aim to make us doubt our own worth, to undermine our existence. But I refuse to be silenced. We cannot allow the forces of division to weaken the very things that make us strong—our differences, our histories, our unique perspectives.
Lately, I’ve found myself returning to the place where it all began—the pueblo. Running free in the paramo. The memories are vivid, but I’ve also started to reflect on the self-governance that my village practiced. In a small, self-reliant community, leaders are chosen not for what they have, but for their moral compass. There’s no amount of money that can buy a leadership role, and there’s no hiding from the impact you have on the people around you. Wisdom is front and center.
As I watch the world, I think about the leaders we choose, the power they wield, and the impact they have not just on our lives but on the lives of people all over the world. We can’t forget what we’ve given up to get here, and we must find the wisdom and strength to ensure that our children, and the generations to come, can live with dignity. We must give them the freedom to choose how they live, how they work, and how they love.
Tania A. Ibarra is the co-founder and managing partner of Step Up Equity Matters. She also is a founder and board member of the Latino Professionals Association, an organization that cultivates a community that inspires, develops, and empowers Latinx professionals to pursue success.
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