Last December, I went back to Argentina, where I was born and spent most of my first twenty years of life, for the first time in two years. The weekend before I left, I didn’t want to pack.

“I’m not going to fit in anymore,” I told my boyfriend as I lay lethargically on my bedroom floor, my suitcase empty beside me. “I’m going to feel like an impostor.”

“It’s your country,” he said. “You have a right to be there.”

He’s half-Latinx, like me—it’s actually one of the things we bonded over before we...