Senior Multimedia Reporter
radhica.sookraj@guardian.co.tt
Astrid Morillo Pulchan once stood at the front of a classroom in Venezuela, secure in her career, her income and the solid walls of the home her father built. Then, almost overnight, crime, crisis and collapse stripped it all away. Forced to leave behind comfort and certainty, Astrid arrived in Trinidad in 2015 with little more than determination. What she rebuilt in a decade was not just a life, but a mission—transforming loss into purpose and finding within herself the one thing no crisis could steal: the courage to rise and help other women rise with her.
Speaking to WE, Morillo Pulchan said at 28, she had everything she thought she would ever need.
She was a thriving teacher within the school system of Petroleos de Venezuela (PDVSA), earning a high salary with benefits many professionals only dream about—loans, health insurance, food cards, transport, and training courses. She lived in a spacious home that her father built from scratch in Cabimas, Zulia. For ten years, she managed the property, renting bedrooms and even the swimming pool to the public. Her life was structured, stable and secure.
After work, she danced salsa casino in Maracaibo, trained with a trail running group, played volleyball, and spent evenings at the gym. Morillo said she was part of the teachers’ dance group and protocol team. She had no children, no financial strain and no reason to imagine that everything could disappear.
Then, she said, Venezuela began to unravel.
Stability to survival
After the death of Hugo Chávez and the rise of Nicolás Maduro, political instability spiralled into economic collapse. Inflation soared. Crime intensified.
What once felt like isolated incidents became a daily fear, Morillo said.
She recalled being robbed several times outside her home. But when thieves broke in and violated the sanctuary her father had built, something inside her broke too.
“They destroyed my good life,” she said quietly. “I knew we had to leave.”
In July 2015, Morillo Pulchan said, she and her mother tried to leave for Trinidad and Tobago. Instead, they were sent back from the airport.
Deported, their airfare lost, the humiliation was crushing.
“It was horrible,” she recalled. She vowed she would not try again.
But Morillo said as things got worse in Venezuela, their survival mode kicked in, and in December 2015, she returned to Trinidad—this time determined to stay.
She said Trinidad was not entirely foreign, as her sister had been living here since 1999, and Morillo Pulchan had visited since she was 12. She said she loved the island’s diversity.
“Still, visiting is not the same as rebuilding from nothing,” she added.
The language barrier hit first, Morillo Pulchan said, explaining that her English was not perfect.
“Then came the paperwork—work permits, residency, banking access, driver’s permits. Each step required forms, fees, and patience. Reaching a completely legal status in Trinidad is a long, exhausting journey,” she said.
Ironically, she said she received a multi-entry US visa before securing her Trinidad residency. But Morillo Pulchan said she was never easily defeated. She went to the immigration office repeatedly, asking questions and explaining her situation.
Last year, persistence paid off, and Morillo Pulchan said she finally obtained her permanent residency and her Trinidad and Tobago ID.
Morillo said professionally, she could have pursued formal certification to teach locally. Instead, she made a different choice. Bills were immediate. Stability was urgent.
“I realised I have to grab every opportunity I see,” she said, and so she diversified.
Morillo Pulchan said she taught Spanish and English as a second language. She translated for migrants and locals. She accepted different jobs to secure a faster income. Through the Pan American Development Foundation, she completed courses in agriculture, baking, plumbing, computer, air conditioning and more.
At community meetings, she translated the stories of refugees—stories that often left her in tears. Listening to their trauma shifted her perspective.
“It makes you think what you are passing through is not that bad.”
Yet she said rebuilding was not only about employment. It was about dignity.
She encountered discrimination—apartment listings that bluntly stated “No Venezuelans.” Co-workers who treated her as lesser. Stereotypes that painted Latin men as criminals and Latin women as prostitutes.
“It hurts,” she said. “It is not fair.”
Still, Morillo Pulchan said she refused to shrink.
“I call myself a Trinidadian. I love bake and shark, roti, curry and pelau. I adore soca and Carnival,” she added.
Morillo Pulchan said she has been married to a Trinidadian for nine years and is the mother of a seven-year-old daughter, Ashley, who, she joked, “speaks English better than me.”
She found her footing publicly through pageants, fashion shows and eventually her television talk show, La Voz Latina, streamed on RealTV.
The programme highlights Venezuelan stories, giving migrants a face and a voice in a society where they are often misunderstood.
Morillo Pulchan said her advocacy is clear and unapologetic: no to xenophobia, domestic violence, labour exploitation and hate; yes to women’s empowerment, inclusion, equity, education and love.
Movement, she said, is her therapy.
“I describe myself as kinesthetic—alive when I am dancing, exercising, sweating. The stage is my happy place,” she added. Self-care, she insists, is not selfishness.
“If your jar is empty, how will you pour to others?”
She said her definition of success has shifted dramatically from the days of high salaries.
“We came to this world naked,” she said. “Everything else is gained.”
She noted that success, for her, is feeling young at heart.
“Laughing. Living without constant stress. Being free in spirit,” she said.
