Am i a gentrifier?

This question has lived rent-free in the back of my mind for years. It lingers—quiet, restless—surfacing at unexpected moments. And then, last week, someone called me a gentrifier on social media. It hit differently. Not because I needed defending. Not because I felt attacked. But because… I genuinely wanted to sit with it.

Have I become part of the very dynamic that has always made me uneasy?

Let’s start with the facts: I’m a white woman from the U.S., living in a country that is not mine. I make more than most locals, yet I live within the local economy. I recently bought land here with my partner. We’re planning to build—a space tied to community, centered on baseball, culture, and shared experience in Cabarete. My partner is Dominican. His child is Dominican. And while I didn’t give birth to him, I love him like he’s my own.

His family has welcomed me with open-hearted generosity I’ll never be able to fully put into words.

But still—what does it mean for me to be here?

This country has given me so much. Safety. Healing. A sense of belonging. A life that feels deeply rooted in love. And that, too, is part of the privilege. I move through the world here freely. No visa anxiety. No fear of being othered or excluded. No history chasing me down. Meanwhile, people who look nothing like me—who were born into places touched by the same colonial fingerprints—are being displaced, criminalized, and blocked from opportunity.

And me? I get to thrive. That’s privilege. That’s real.

I don’t pretend to have answers. But I do believe in sitting with the hard questions. I want to use what I have—for good. Not to romanticize, not to “save,” but to build with intention. Still, I catch myself wondering: how do I do that without slipping into the “expat as savior” trope? The girl with the dreamy Instagram captions about soul-searching abroad while ignoring the economic ripple effects of her presence.

I don’t want to be that. But I know I’m not immune to it.

I felt this weight back in Hawaii, too. That same tension. The knowing that people like me were living comfortably while Native Hawaiians were being priced out, pushed out, left behind. I told myself I wouldn’t stay somewhere I couldn’t belong. And yet, here I am—buying land in the DR.

This isn’t a confession. It’s not a guilt spiral or a cry for validation. It’s just… truth. Complicated, layered, messy truth. I think about it a lot. Maybe someone else does too.

I love my partner. I love this child. I love the life we’re building. I wouldn’t leave them for anything. But I hesitate to call this place “home” outright. Because while my life is here, the land is older than me. And it’s not mine to claim just because I’ve signed papers. I can be here—but I want to be here right.

So I keep asking: how do I honor what’s been given to me… without taking more than I should?