For Elwim Sorto, advocacy is not only about changing systems; sometimes it is about creating community where people can finally feel seen
ELWIM SORTO | Special Contributor
ElwimSorto22@GMail.com
I spent much of my life believing I had to earn the right to be respected. As a queer, first-generation Salvadoran American growing up in a low-income household, I learned early that being different often came with expectations. Some were spoken out loud. Others were communicated through silence, side comments or the ways people treated those who did not fit traditional ideas of gender, sexuality or success.
Growing up, I often felt caught between different worlds. At home, I was raised with many of the values my parents carried from El Salvador — values rooted in hard work, sacrifice, faith and family. Outside the home, I was navigating American schools, higher education and, eventually, my own understanding of identity. Learning how to honor both parts of myself became one of the defining challenges of my life.
For a long time, I felt like I was translating more than culture. I was trying to reconcile different expectations about identity, success and what it meant to belong. Over time, I stopped seeing those parts of myself as competing identities. I realized I did not have to choose between being Salvadoran, American or queer. I am all of those things, and each has shaped the person I have become.
For a long time, I thought achievement would protect me from judgment. Seven years ago, when I began taking dual-credit classes through Dallas College, I was not thinking about becoming an advocate; I was thinking about survival, trying to figure out how to build a future that felt secure and respected. Programs like Dallas Promise opened doors that I never imagined possible, and, for the first time, higher education felt within reach.
Every accomplishment felt like proof that I belonged. Good grades became a source of comfort. Academic success became something I could point to when I felt uncertain about how others saw me. If I earned enough degrees, enough titles or enough recognition, I thought maybe people would see those things before they saw the parts of me I worried they might judge.
Looking back, I realize I was searching for acceptance in places that could only offer achievement. That mindset followed me for years.
It influenced my decision to serve in the military, my early interest in law, how hard I pushed myself academically and professionally. From the outside, it may have looked like ambition. In many ways it was. But beneath that ambition was a desire that I think many LGBTQ+ people understand: I wanted to be taken seriously, to feel valued, to prove that I belonged in spaces that did not always feel built for people like me.
What ultimately changed me was not another accomplishment. It was community.
As I continued my education and entered social work, I found myself surrounded by people who believed that human dignity should not depend on someone’s income, identity, background or ability to conform. For the first time, I found a field that encouraged people to see complexity rather than fear it. I learned about systems, inequality, mental health and the many ways people navigate a world that does not always make room for them.
I also learned more about myself. I realized that much of my drive had been shaped by a desire for acceptance. I had spent years trying to prove my worth when, in reality, my worth had never been something that needed to be proved.
That realization changed how I viewed advocacy.
During my time at UT Arlington, I became involved in efforts to create greater visibility and support for LGBTQ+ students. I helped found The Queer Social Work Association because I wanted students to have access to the kind of community I had spent so long searching for myself. I wanted people to know they were not alone. I wanted them to know that their identities were not obstacles to overcome but sources of strength, perspective and resilience.
Seeing students gather in a space where they did not have to explain or minimize parts of themselves reminded me why visibility matters. It showed me that advocacy is not only about changing systems; sometimes it is about creating community where people can finally feel seen.
Today, I work in mental health and continue pursuing a doctorate in public administration. My work often focuses on systems-level change. But, at its core, my work is still rooted in a simple belief that people deserve to be seen, heard and valued for who they are.
That belief feels especially important right now.
Across Texas and throughout the country, conversations about immigration, LGBTQ+ rights, education and mental health are often treated as separate issues. For many people, those issues intersect every day, shaping how people move through schools, workplaces, healthcare systems and communities. They shape how people see themselves and whether they feel they belong.
As a queer Salvadoran American, I understand what it feels like to navigate those intersections. I also understand the sacrifices many immigrant families make so future generations can have opportunities they never had. My parents’ journey made my own possible. Their resilience taught me that identity is not something to hide. It is something to carry forward.
Pride Month reminds us that visibility matters, but visibility alone is not enough. People also need community. They need support. They need opportunities. They need to know that they do not have to become someone else in order to be worthy of respect.
For years, I believed I had to prove myself before I could fully be myself. What I know now is that the things I once felt pressure to hide became some of my greatest strengths. They shaped my perspective, my work and the person I have become.
To every queer young person, first-generation student, immigrant or anyone struggling to find their place: I hope you know that your value does not come from a title, a degree or someone else’s approval. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is stop asking whether we belong and start recognizing that we always did.