Stefanny C. Sarich, LCSW-C, is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker with a Master’s in Clinical Behavioral Health from the University of Maryland, Baltimore. Originally from La Paz, Bolivia, Stefanny draws on her personal journey of resilience and cultural heritage to empower marginalized youth and families. With over a decade of experience as a crisis counsellor, psychotherapist, and advocate, she has worked extensively in Montgomery and Prince George’s counties addressing domestic violence, sexual assault, and family trauma. Now a therapist, Stefanny blends her professional expertise with her Bolivian roots to foster healing and inspire strength within her community.

Bolivia to the USA

I was born and raised in La Paz, Bolivia, surrounded by the vibrancy and warmth of a close-knit community. In our neighbourhood, everyone knew each other, playing soccer with my cousins and neighbours, and celebrations were a constant part of life. But at home, things were different. My father was an alcoholic and abusive towards my mom and sometimes my older brother. When he travelled to the U.S. for work in 1999, we experienced brief reprieves, moments when life felt lighter. It was during one of these breaks that my mother decided she wanted to separate from him.

In June 2000, my father invited my mother, my older brother, my two younger sisters, and me to visit him in Gaithersburg for what was supposed to be a three-month summer trip. We had no idea it would become permanent. When it was time to return to Bolivia, my father hid our passports, leaving us stranded. It was a shocking and disorienting experience. We hadn’t said goodbye to friends or family, and I had nothing with me except a diary covered in traditional aguayo fabric.

Adjusting to life in the U.S. was incredibly difficult. My mom, who didn’t speak English, had to enroll us in school and navigate the challenges of paperwork. My father’s abusive behavior soon returned, and our home life became unbearable. I was 12 years old, missing Bolivia deeply but trying to adapt.

I struggled with the cultural differences. In La Paz, life was community-based, filled with connection and celebration. In Gaithersburg, people lived in isolated bubbles, driving their cars and keeping to themselves. My mom found some solace when she met a Brazilian woman married to a Bolivian, and we began sharing meals and traditions that brought a piece of home into our lives.

Soccer and dance helped me find my footing. I joined an afterschool program and met other Hispanic students who became my community. But at school, I was a tough teenager, often angry, skipping school and not caring about my academics. My counselor recommended I join Identity, a program for Latino youth. In October 2004, It was the first safe space where I could share the struggles I faced at home. My mother filed a protective order against my father in 2005, freeing us from his control. She worked tirelessly to provide for us, juggling three jobs—cleaning houses, working at Panera, and delivering newspapers.

Returning to Bolivia

In 2011, after my mom received her green card through the U-visa , we were finally able to visit Bolivia. Returning to La Paz was a mix of joy and shock. At my grandmother’s house in the town of Cochabamba, we were surrounded by family, in La Paz, we visited my aunt's apartment and we all packed into a small apartment where 10 of us shared a single bathroom. My little sisters, who had left Bolivia as babies, found the adjustment difficult—the high altitude made it hard to breathe, and hot water often ran out. But for me, it was a return to the communal life I had missed, a reminder of how much we took for granted in the U.S.

We revisited all the places from my childhood: Plaza del Prado, with its beautiful shops and ice cream stalls; Mercado Lanza, bustling with local foods and crafts; and Lake Titicaca, where we spent a day at Copacabana. Being back in Bolivia rekindled my connection to my roots and reminded me of the beauty and resilience of my culture.

Finding Identity

The same year my mom filed the protective order, Identity offered me a job working with Latino youth. At 15, I worked as a peer educator going to bus and metro stops to educate people on HIV prevention and encouraging them to get tested. After completing my Associates in Early Education, I went back to Identity, Inc in 2010 and began running after-school programs, creating safe spaces for at-risk teens. After high school, I attended Montgomery College, balancing classes at night with a full-time job at Identity during the day.

I eventually earned my undergraduate degree in social work and went on to work with domestic violence victims at the Montgomery County Sheriff’s Office. Witnessing the deep trauma faced by survivors of abuse and working with at risk youth and vulnerable families inspired me to pursue a master’s degree and become a mental health therapist. Helping others heal, especially within the Latino community, has been the most fulfilling work of my life.

At work, I witnessed many cases of domestic violence and family separation, particularly within the Central American community, where parents often spent years apart from their children before reuniting. These experiences, compounded by sexual abuse, isolation, and the struggle to rebuild their lives in a new home, left many grappling with deep trauma and a lack of emotional support.

Cholita Vs Macho

The culture in Bolivia is very patriarchic. Women have to serve their husbands, and If they experience domestic violence, leaving the marriage isn't easy. The divorce laws are strict and often frowned upon, giving men the power to do whatever they want. Only recently has domestic violence become a topic of public discussion, with organizations now working to support survivors and show women that it’s okay to leave abusive relationships.

When my husband and I visited Bolivia for the first time, we attended a Fighting Cholitas wrestling event. The term Cholita—often used derogatorily—refers to women in traditional clothing, seen as simple or rural. However, these women turned stereotypes on their heads in the wrestling ring, donning their heavy petticoats, braided hair, and signature hats to fight in a WWE-style spectacle. It was fascinating to watch them in action, their strength and spirit on full display. The crowd was diverse, from families to a bachelorette party with a bride-to-be and her friends celebrating in the stands. What an empowering and symbolic way to begin a marriage—cheering on women who defy the odds and reclaim their power!

Pachamama

Bolivian culture is deeply rooted in tradition and community. My maternal grandmother, Isabella, was the keeper of these traditions in our family. She participated in folkloric dances like diablada, caporales, and tinku. These dances, with their vibrant costumes and powerful stories, were more than performances—they were expressions of our history and identity.

I’ll never forget my first experience at the Oruro Carnival, Bolivia’s largest folkloric festival. My grandmother took me to the front row, where I watched the Diablada dancers in awe. Their elaborate costumes and mysterious movements were both mesmerizing and slightly terrifying to my 10-year-old self.

One dance I performed in school was tinku, a ritualistic reenactment of men fighting for a woman—a symbol of land and love. My grandmother explained that Bolivians believe in Pachamama, the goddess of Earth and fertility. Her teachings about honoring the land and thanking Pachamama for her gifts have stayed with me, grounding me in a deep respect for nature.

Even in the U.S., I’ve carried these traditions with me, from the bright colors of our traditional clothes to the celebrations that bring people together. Each memory and story connects me to my roots and reminds me of the strength, resilience, and beauty of being Bolivian.

Looking back, my journey has been a complex blend of hardship and resilience. My family and I endured the isolation of leaving Bolivia, the pain of domestic violence, and the struggle to rebuild in a foreign land. Yet, through it all, we found strength in our traditions, our community, and each other. Now, as a therapist, I not only carry stories of trauma, but also of healing. I hope to pass on to my son my love for our culture and the courage to stand up against injustice, just as my mother once did for us.

Stefanny Sarich, LCSW-C

Pronouns: She, her, hers