I migrated to the Bronx from San Joaquín, Venezuela just weeks before the blizzard of ’96. I was six years old. Since then, I’ve lived in what I call “the in-between” — not fully from here, no longer fully from there. Just a little girl learning to grow up in two worlds at once.

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The arepa was the only thing that lingered from my old life. My aunt Doris, who raised me before I came to the U.S., was the first person to introduce me to the magic of a warm arepa — simple, golden, and filled with love.

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Even now, every bite feels like time travel. A soft crunch, a hint of salt, and suddenly I’m back in San Joaquín, barefoot in the kitchen, watching her hands move with practiced rhythm. It’s more than food — it’s memory. It's home wrapped in cornmeal, nostalgia tucked between the layers.

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After I migrated in 1996, I wasn’t able to return to Venezuela for over a decade due to my immigration status. Years passed. She grew older. The doctors told our family she only had a few months to live — but somehow, she held on.

When I was finally able to go back in 2008, I rushed to see her. By then, she had lost most of her memory. But when she heard I was coming, she got up from her bed — fragile, but full of purpose — and said, “Tengo que hacerle arepa a mi niña.”

She knew. She had waited. She wouldn’t leave this world until she made one more arepa for her girl.

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I’d been working since I was 15 — while my friends went off to college, I was busy surviving. I moved out at 18, put myself through community college, and climbed the corporate ladder. By 27, I was head of HR for a company in NJ and consulting for multiple start-ups across New York City. Still, that little dream of starting an arepa business never left my heart.

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I began making arepas for my friends — a diverse crew from all over the world. I started filling each arepa based on their cultural backgrounds.  Soon, word spread. My arepas had a reputation.

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In 2018, at the height of a corporate burnout and trapped in a toxic work environment, I knew it was time. Time to stop surviving and start living. Time to build something of my own. And just like that — Arepa Baby was born.