By Nick Valencia | October 15, 2025
Thank you, GALEO.
Thank you for the invitation and for the work you do every single day: building bridges, shaping leaders, and making sure our communities have a voice in places that used to overlook us.
It’s an honor to be here — in a room full of people who get it. People who know what it’s like to walk into spaces that weren’t built for us and still find a way to leave the door open behind us.
Every year around this time, I’m reminded that Hispanic Heritage Month isn’t just about celebration. It’s about reflection. It’s about how far we’ve come and how much further we still have to go.
And let’s be real — this year hits differently. Across the country, our community is under attack again.
Federal immigration policies have turned back toward fear. We’re seeing families separated, people detained, entire neighborhoods living under the shadow of enforcement.
It’s ugly. It’s exhausting. But it’s also a moment of truth.
Because in these moments of persecution, we are being reminded — sometimes painfully — of just how powerful we actually are.
We are the workers who keep this country fed. We are the entrepreneurs who build its economy. We are the educators, the faith leaders, the public servants — the people who make America work.
So when they try to marginalize us, when they call us “illegal,” when they question our place — it’s actually an opportunity for us to lean into our power, to remind them: we’ve always belonged.
It's the idea that things are happening for us, not to us.
That phrase has changed the way I see my life.
Because for a long time, I used to ask myself, “Why is this happening to me?”
Why did I grow up surrounded by gangs, by struggle, by uncertainty? Why was I the only kid in my neighborhood who thought journalism could be a way out? And later — why was I one of the only people like me in my newsroom?
But over time, I realized — those weren’t obstacles. Those were lessons.
The challenges didn’t happen to me. They happened for me. To shape me. To sharpen me. To prepare me for what was next.
And if that’s true for me — it’s true for us. Because what’s happening to our community right now, the struggle, the scrutiny, the constant fight to prove our worth — it’s not just pain. It’s preparation. It’s shaping a generation of Latino leaders who know how to turn resistance into resilience.
In 2006, I packed up my things and flew across the country from Northeast LA to Georgia.
I didn’t know a soul.
Didn’t have connections.
I used a puffy vest as a pillow and a tapestry as a blanket the first few nights I slept on the floor of my 500-square foot studio apartment.
But I had purpose.
When I got to CNN, I was one of the only generational Latinos there. I started at the very bottom — literally — running teleprompter.
I wasn’t on air. I wasn’t even close. But I was watching. I was learning. And quietly promising myself: one day, I’m not just going to scroll the stories… I’m going to tell them.
Within seven years, I became one of the only people in CNN history to go from teleprompter operator to national correspondent.
That didn’t happen by luck. That happened because every “no” became fuel. Every setback became preparation. Every moment of doubt became a reminder: this is happening for me.
This summer, after 19 years, I was faced with one of the hardest challenges of my life — I left CNN.
All credit to CNN — they helped build the foundation of who I am as a journalist. They gave me the framework, the discipline, the duty to truth. But the truth is… I never really felt like I belonged there.
And I want to speak plainly about that — because this is a room that understands that feeling. Many assume the media has a liberal bias. But the bias I found to be most pervasive — the one that runs deep — is the bias of elitism.
It’s a crowd I never truly felt comfortable around. No matter what I did — how well I spoke English, how nice my suit was, how close my proximity to whiteness — it never felt like it was enough.
And if I’m honest, there were moments I felt like I didn’t belong here either — in this region, in this new version of the South I was trying to make home.
There was a time, right after I left, when I felt sorry for myself. I thought I had walked away from something prestigious — something that gave me instant credibility. That CNN badge carried weight. It told my tainted perception, you matter.
But then one day, it hit me: I belong anywhere my feet are planted. Any room I walk into — I belong. Because I bring me. And that’s enough.
As an independent journalist now, I’m living words I never imagined saying. I never planned to launch my own media company. But that’s exactly what I did.
A little over 100 days later — and more than 14 million views — the world reminded me of something I’d forgotten: I do belong.
But I’ll be honest with you — I don’t have it all figured out. I’m still learning every day. The people around me — the Latinos whose stories I get to tell — they’re the ones helping me grow into this next chapter. From my executive producer, the son of migrant farmworkers, to the guests on my show who are being persecuted by ICE — they’re the reason I keep pushing. I’m using my Latinidad as a compass, as fuel, to maintain the confidence and drive to keep pushing for a role in independent journalism.
Those moments — those affirmations — I call them God shots. They’re little flashes of grace that tell me, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Sometimes, when life pulls you out of something comfortable, it’s not rejection — it’s redirection.
Because purpose doesn’t always live inside the places that first gave us opportunity. Sometimes, it’s waiting outside the gate, in the unknown, in the discomfort.
And that discomfort? It’s where the real work happens. It’s where our strength is forged.
And that’s the same truth our community is living right now. We’re being tested. We’re being pushed. But we’re also being called.
Called to rise above the noise, to tell our own stories, to show this country what it means to belong — not because we were invited, but because we earned it.
That’s what led me back to my why.
I grew up around immigrants. Around gang members. Around latchkey kids whose parents held it all together with faith and duct tape. That’s the community that raised me. That’s who shaped me.
So when I report on ICE raids, or immigration protests, or families torn apart, I’m not just covering a story. I’m reflecting a piece of my own story.
I see my neighbors. My friends. People who never made the news — unless it was bad news.
That’s what gives me my voice. That’s what fuels my purpose.
Because let’s be honest: truth is under attack. Mainstream media feels handcuffed. Too many people are afraid to speak truth to power.
But we can’t be. We come from ancestors who faced fear and showed up anyway. So I show up. Not just for me — but for my community.
Representation isn’t about being seen. It’s about being understood.
Hispanic Heritage Month is beautiful. The colors. The music. The pride.
But for me, I celebrate our heritage every single day.
Every day I walk into a room, every time I step in front of a camera, I’m honoring the people who came before me. The ones who didn’t have the mic — but made sure I could one day hold it.
I celebrate our culture by living it. Through service. Through storytelling. Through the courage to keep going when the world tells you to sit down.
Because our stories matter. Our voices matter. You matter.
True leaders don’t create followers. They create other leaders.
That’s what this room is about. Each of us here has the power to multiply impact — to mentor, to uplift, to open a door for someone else.
Because one day, someone will stand right here, on this same stage, and say, they didn’t just make it — they made room.
So let’s keep showing up. Let’s keep building. And let’s keep reminding the world: these things aren’t happening to us. They’re happening for us.
Gracias.
