Hedels González emigrated to Spain in 2014. Recently graduated in Psychology from the University of Medical Sciences of Havana, she left the island to pursue a master’s degree. In Cuba, she had specialized in Health Psychology and oncological processes, but her experience as a migrant and the emotional challenges it entailed prompted her to redirect her career toward migration psychology, a growing field within the social sciences. “When I left Cuba, I faced complete uprooting. I felt a very strong emotional impact, especially in terms of my family. I felt very alone. And that’s despite the fact that my migration, as far as possible, wasn’t one of the hardest: I arrived with a regularized status, with friends around me, in a fairly favorable environment,” she recalls.
Halfway through her master’s degree, the fees for non-EU students (those who do not belong to the European Union) increased, and at the same time, she discovered that having her degree recognized in Cuba wasn’t a viable option at the time. She was informed that she would have to retake several courses at a Spanish university. This accumulation of obstacles led her to abandon her master’s degree and, for a time, psychology.
“I again started studying for my degree four years later, when my frustration and anger began to subside. I had some courses recognized, but I had to enroll at a private university, already a mother, which added to the difficulty of the process. After the pandemic, I couldn’t continue paying for it and had to transfer to a public university, with all the wait time that entailed. It hasn’t been easy. In 2023, the equivalency of my Cuban degree finally arrived, and I was able to enroll. Even so, I decided to finish my degree in Spain and complete all academic processes here, despite feeling it deeply unfair,” she recalls.
In 2023, she began working with numerous Cuban migrant patients in her clinic, where she identified a common pattern: “Many associated their discomfort with self-esteem and stress, but didn’t recognize that emigration was a central factor in their mental health. That, along with what I experienced myself — the lack of depth in therapeutic processes, where migration wasn’t represented — made me think: ‘We’re not doing this right.’ That’s where it all began.”
Motivated by this, she decided to launch Emigrar hacia adentro (Emigrating Inward), a project designed to promote mental health among Cubans in the diaspora.
“I realized that we were neglecting fundamental processes: identity, belonging, community, emotional regulation, memory…invisible but decisive aspects. I saw this both in the clinic and in my research. There are many studies on migration, but most focus on certain flows or regions. A more refined perspective on Latin America is lacking.”
Hedels González is currently pursuing a diploma in mental health in situations of political violence and catastrophe, focusing on Latin America, as well as a specialization in mental health and refugee intervention. She is part of the Working Group “Migratory Movements, Refuge, Asylum and Intercultural Relations” of the Official College of Psychology of Catalonia (COPC).
In addition to leading Emigrar hacia dentro (Emigrating Inward), the Cuban psychologist treats fellow Cubans living in eight countries as a clinical psychologist. She dreams that her work will contribute to training new mental health professionals who will support migration processes based on a sensitive and contextualized approach, and that what began as an individual project can transcend her own experience.
How important is the migration variable when we talk about mental health?
Migrating isn’t just about leaving a country. It’s also everything that comes afterward: the emptiness, the internal transformation, the losses that aren’t always mentioned. On social media, you only see a superficial layer, but behind it lies a deeply complex emotional and identity structure. And I wanted to look at that, understand it and accompany it.
Over time, I realized that migration wasn’t being considered a real, complex and determining therapeutic variable. I saw this omission both in the people within the community and in my personal journey. Even when I sought psychological help, I noticed that migration was approached as a generic category, often from a Eurocentric perspective focused on the “first world” migrant.
But migrating from the global south, with our roots, our stories, is something else. It’s not just about adapting to Western culture, but about respecting the emotional and cultural structure from which we come. When that part is ignored, something breaks. And often, in that break, we lose ourselves.
That’s why I insist: we were skipping fundamental processes — identity, belonging, memory, emotional regulation — as if those layers didn’t exist. I felt a need to refine the approach, to understand what was happening with our migration experiences from a more situated perspective. Migrating from one country is not the same as migrating from another, from one context that from another. Where we come from influences both where we’ve arrived and where we’ve arrived.
What is “Emigrating Inward”?
It’s much more than what’s shown on Instagram. Social media has been a way to present everything behind it in a simple way. It’s not just about talking about emotions, but about understanding how roots, identity, context, body and territory are intertwined in our emotional well-being.
My goal is to translate the technical knowledge I acquire in my studies into a relatable language, without losing depth or rigor. I don’t want the project to be reduced to a personal experience; it’s not based on my experience or on a single type of migration: it’s supported by theory, analysis and practice.
The core of the project is to build spaces where we can look at each other with respect and dignity, aware of the context from which we come. Where talking about mental health doesn’t imply taboo or shame. Where we can name what hurts, without feeling like we’re failing for needing help, and also bring mental health closer to our culture, removing stigmas.
What role do social media play in the mental health of migrants today?
If used with good intentions, they can be great allies. In my case, everything I share is guided by a purpose: to psychoeducate and contribute to collective learning about the migration experience.
Digital platforms can help build community, but they can also increase self-demand. Comparing ourselves to the processes of other migrants can lead to unfair guilt if we feel we’re not achieving the same things.
I use social media as a platform to make my project grow, but with care and responsibility, and showing myself as a human being: a person who experienced migration. I try to keep my different roles — psychologist, woman, mother, Cuban — separate, especially in the digital world.
I believe that those of us who share information about mental health should always question what we share.
What I share is based on study and practice, not just on my personal story. My experience is only the bridge that led me to become interested in these topics, but the project doesn’t revolve around me, and that’s why I prefer not to expose my private life too much.
You talk about the hyper-demanding emigrant syndrome. What is it and how does it manifest itself?
Many migrants have internalized the narrative that, having chosen to leave, they must endure everything. “I decided this, so I have to be strong, let’s move forward,” they repeat to me in consultations. But that logic — deeply rooted in our cultures, especially in Cuba — ends up delegitimizing pain. And no: migrating doesn’t deprive us of the right to bw wounded.
That “move forward no matter what” narrative may have been a survival tool, but it also leaves us trapped in old emotional patterns, which prevent real growth. Because if you don’t heal internally, you may be moving forward materially, but emotionally you continue to operate from the same structures. For me, learning to support ourselves differently is also freedom. It’s also growth.
Migrating puts the body on alert: even in seemingly safe environments, the body can continue to operate in survival mode. If we don’t consciously address this, we carry that tension for years.
Hyper-demanding emigrant syndrome is deeply linked to what “managing to leave” the country has historically meant for Cubans. There is pressure — explicit or implicit — to prove that migration was a success. This validation is often associated with material and status achievements: proving that the sacrifice was worth it because one has achieved economic stability or social prestige.
In my clinical practice, I have accompanied people who have already achieved goals they dreamed of before migrating, yet live in constant anxiety to achieve more. There is a pressing need for external validation and a feeling of internal lack that never dissipates. When expectations are not met, guilt and frustration arise.
This becomes even more complex when the person who emigrates is burdened with the responsibility of financially supporting those left behind in Cuba. These expectations can become suffocating, especially when they are not met.
Have you observed any particular characteristics of the Cuban migration process compared to other contexts?
Yes. Cuban migration has very marked characteristics, and one of the most significant is that it is rarely the result of a completely free decision. It is usually motivated by necessity, the search for freedom, the economic crisis, or the loss of a sense of belonging within one’s own country.
Therefore, when I work with Cubans, I usually begin by asking: what were the reasons that led you to leave? This response determines the entire emotional relationship that they will later have with their country of origin and is key to beginning to rebuild a fragmented identity.
Some people leave for economic reasons; others, because of a profound rupture with political, social and emotional issues. This rupture determines the migration experience. Furthermore, Cuban emigration, like that of other countries, carries an implicit political charge. Leaving Cuba is often perceived as an achievement or a stroke of luck, which generates internal and external pressures.
When emigrating is not a free choice, we often force adaptations: out of urgency, a sense of no future, or because we don’t feel part of what we left behind. This creates an internal tension between what remains of Cuba — even if it no longer fully represents us — and the need to integrate into the host country. Reconstruction, then, is twofold: looking inward to see what remains of your country of origin, and at the same time, looking outward to see how you can adapt without losing yourself.
In your clinical practice, have you observed differences in migration experiences based on gender or age?
I work a lot with migrant women, and what I observe is a shared pain, even if the stories are different. There is a sense of loss, of uprooting, of having had to leave too much behind. And there is also immense strength, a great capacity to sustain oneself and rebuild. But that strength shouldn’t imply being alone. We shouldn’t romanticize that heroic loneliness, because sometimes being strong can also be exhausting.
That’s why we need therapeutic spaces that not only welcome pain, but also recognize each person’s context. They shouldn’t try to “normalize” migrant suffering as if it were an inherent part of the process, nor imposing an idea of well-being based on other realities. It’s not simply about “adapting,” as if adapting were synonymous with forgetting.
This is also my way of caring for my country from abroad: supporting those who, like me, left in search of something more, but still need roots, connections and a sense of belonging. Mental health, for me, is a right, and also a form of resistance. A way of saying: we deserve to live well, not just survive.
Beyond the specific reasons that lead someone to emigrate, the key question I ask in consultations is: why did you decide to migrate? Although it may seem simple, it is a profound question, especially if we consider the different stages of life.
Migrating at 20 is not the same as migrating at 60. In older adulthood, it’s not about building an identity from scratch, because it’s already formed. But there is a profound loss, a feeling that there is limited time to rebuild. There is grief for what was, for what was left behind, and for a future that feels uncertain.
Being uprooted at this age can be especially difficult because people expect to have achieved stability, to avoid having to start over. Therefore, the grief of identity, the loss of belonging and the fracture of emotional ties carry a very specific emotional weight. Beyond the real possibilities of adaptation, what hurts most is the internal, subjective experience of grief.
How do you address this migratory grief and nostalgia for one’s homeland in your therapeutic practice?
From a psychotherapeutic perspective, supporting the “emigrating inward” movement involves supporting this grief, not to overcome it, but to integrate it. Because grief isn’t overcome: it’s integrated. Recognizing the loss, giving it space and time, is essential. Forcing a rapid adaptation only generates resistance and suffering.
Society imposes the idea that we must adapt immediately, but often this speed obscures grief and hinders authentic reconstruction. The real challenge is not only adapting to a new culture, but also patiently rebuilding the affective, symbolic and cultural codes that were dismantled.
There’s something I frequently observe: people who, although they are materially well off in their new place, feel they have no right to feel bad or sad because they are “better off than before.” But identity isn’t sustained by material conditions alone; it’s a network of symbols, languages, memories and emotions, many of which are lost or fragmented in the migration process.
Therefore, in my therapeutic support, I insist that it’s not about forgetting or overcoming. It’s about integration. Allowing that loss to have a place, to hurt when it needs to hurt, so that it gradually dissolves, leaving room for the construction of a new identity and sense of belonging.
How do you perceive, based on your clinical and personal experience, the effects of the identity fragmentation that many Cubans feel today?
Reconstructing identity and a sense of belonging in the migration context is an essential part of the grieving process that emigrating entails. But doing so from a distance is profoundly challenging. The migrant faces a distorted reflection of their country of origin, which no longer exists as they knew it.
This process varies greatly depending on the time and reasons why someone emigrated. Family experiences show that we live with a shadow of memories that changes depending on the time spent abroad, the ties left behind and the way in which each person has been able — or not — to become emotionally detached from Cuba.
You’ve spoken about the concept of “accompanied loneliness.” What does it mean and how does it impact emotionally?
Accompanied loneliness is a feeling of profound emotional disconnection, even when surrounded by family, friends, or a community. In our societies, we are not used to sustaining discomfort. We tend to suppress it, to hide it. And where pain cannot be shown, loneliness emerges. There may be the presence of others, but not real support.
Furthermore, many migrants lose their emotional reference points, their emotional language, even the way to tell their story. They struggle to put into words what they feel because they have lost the context that gave meaning to those feelings. This intensifies the feeling of isolation.
I have seen people who are socially very supported, but emotionally exhausted. People who, from the outside, appear to have a solid network, but inside feel alone, invisible, overwhelmed.
How does this particularly affect migrant women?
For many women, this pressure is combined with specific forms of violence: emotional overload, family responsibilities, and a strong sense of invisibility. Migrant women are often associated with care and service jobs, often poorly paid. And if their immigration status is also irregular, they are exposed to even more precarious working conditions.
All of this occurs within an already complex process such as migration. Therefore, it is crucial that psychology not treat the migration experience as a uniform or neutral experience. Each story is unique, and therapeutic approaches must consider the specificities of gender, age, origin and context.
Cuba is experiencing an unprecedented wave of migration, mainly to the United States, which has been the preferred destination country for decades. Many Cubans who emigrated to that country through the Humanitarian Parole program promoted by the Biden administration now see their stability there threatened, given the new administration’s hostile stance toward migrants. How can migration policies impact mental health?
Migration cannot be understood outside of politics. Although the process is experienced individually, it is a collective, social and structural phenomenon. Migrants’ mental health is directly impacted by migration policies: legal uncertainty, fear of deportation, the feeling of not belonging anywhere and the fact that their fate depends on government decisions generate constant stress.
When we talk about psychology without considering politics, what we’re doing is self-help, not psychology. Politics defines the frameworks in which we live. We cannot ignore something that so directly influences our life projects. Migrants live at the mercy of decisions made in contexts that are often foreign to them.
An abrupt change in immigration policy affects not only people’s legal status but also their perception of the future. It’s as if control over their own lives has been taken away from them.
The case of Cubans who emigrated to the United States under Humanitarian Parole exemplifies this well: they arrived with a promise of stability that is now threatened. They live a profound impasse, accompanied by legal uncertainty and an increasingly hostile discourse that portrays them as a burden or a threat. This narrative has a direct effect on self-esteem, generates anxiety, emotional exhaustion and, in many cases, trauma.
Laws are not just documents: they have an impact on our very ability to imagine the future. And for those who come from contexts marked by exile, silence or ruptures, enduring these tensions in their host countries places an enormous burden on them.
From a psychological perspective, we can no longer appeal solely to “resilience” as if it were an individual heroic virtue. Political contexts generate harm that cannot be resolved through personal strength alone. Therefore, solutions must be collective. We need to train professionals who understand migration based on a critical, sensitive perspective, committed to the emotional and structural reality of those who go through these processes.
What personal and professional lessons has your project taught you so far, and what do you hope for the future?
My current specialization is entirely oriented toward migration processes. Beyond Cuban migration — which, of course, permeates all my work — I am interested in understanding the different types of displacement, including the experiences of people who are refugees, displaced or forced to migrate due to various forms of violence. I focus especially on the Latin American diaspora, political violence and what happens after the migration process.
I feel very proud of what we have built and the perseverance I have maintained, especially considering that, just two years ago, launching this project into the world was an act of absolute uncertainty. My happiness, however, doesn’t erase the tiredness, the late nights studying or everything that remains outside the visible realm of social media.
In the future, my hope is for “Emigrating Inwards” to grow beyond me. I want it to become a solid mental health platform, where other professionals can join with their own identity and ways of doing things, even though we have a common and specialized perspective on emigration as a variable. A space where Cubans abroad can redefine emotional care based on a constructive and stigma-free perspective, and that at the same time allows for the training of psychologists from around the world to better support migrants with life stories and contexts radically different from their own.
I am also interested in continuing to collaborate with institutions and groups in the design of study programs focused on mental health and migration. I believe that only through institutional work can we expand the reach and access to mental health care for all people.
