A few years ago, I experienced a period unlike any before it. Heavy, sharp aches pierced through my lower abdomen. The pain was so severe that I feared something was going terribly wrong inside of me. I was paranoid, convincing myself that my appendix had somehow bursted. As someone who has needed life-saving surgery in the past, I didn’t want to risk it. So I made the decision to go to the emergency room. A few hours later, I was diagnosed with ovarian cysts. Since then, I’ve never gone back for a follow-up, and I’ve never made another trip to that hospital, even when that agonizing pain returns. I can’t afford to. That visit to an emergency room in New Jersey to rule out that I was dying cost me $2,800. Meanwhile, that surgery that saved my life in Colombia cost just $12, the price for a tube my doctor had to order from another hospital.
Since then, I’ve chosen to do all my medical tests and appointments in Colombia, where my father was born. This year alone, I’ve gone there for dental care, routine checkups, and gynecological visits. Part of the reason I can even make this choice is because I have family there, a place to stay, and people I trust who can help me navigate the country’s healthcare system. But a bigger part is, simply, because even with the cost of flying to South America, medical care there is just more affordable for me.
“I’ve chosen to do all my medical tests and appointments in Colombia, where my father was born.”
natasha lópez
About 17% of immigrants in the U.S. receive medical care abroad, often returning to their home country for routine check-ups and necessary procedures. And Latines, specifically, are the most likely to take a trip back home for care. It makes sense. Latines are the most uninsured racial or ethnic group in the U.S., with a 2024 CDC report finding that Latine adults are roughly 2-to-3 times more likely to be uninsured than non-Latine white adults.
But I’ve learned recently that it’s not just us. A few weeks ago, while I was on vacation in the Dominican Republic, driving to my hotel, I saw a billboard that made me purse my lips and raise my eyebrows: “World-class medical care for U.S. veterans.” While I knew countless Latine friends and relatives who traveled to their homelands, or their parents’ origin countries, for medical attention, it didn’t occur to me that other Americans, including those without ties to Latin America or the Caribbean, and even those who were willing to sacrifice their lives for the U.S., would have to leave their home for medical care, too.
“I think about how many of us are forced to become casual about symptoms because panic is too expensive. I’ve seen what happens when people wait too long, not because they want to, but because our healthcare system makes waiting feel like the only option.”
NATASHA lópez
I mean, I know medical tourism is nothing new. I, for one, will never skip a video of a girl traveling to Medellín to get all her aesthetic procedures done, or a bald guy going to Turkey and showing his months-later hair transplant results, or someone documenting one of those international hospital wings designed specifically for foreigners who come to get a whole medical workup abroad. But this wasn’t cosmetic; it was basic healthcare.
According to the CDC, millions of U.S. residents travel internationally for medical care each year, with many going to Mexico, the Caribbean, Central America, and South America. Mexico alone attracts roughly 1.2 million American medical travelers annually, with one study showing that 9% of the people who cross the border into Mexico do so specifically for healthcare. These are Americans without health insurance as well as those who are insured but still can’t afford astronomical copays, deductibles, and out-of-pocket medical costs. In the U.S., even routine care can cost hundreds of dollars, with emergency room visits running into the thousands before insurance fully kicks in. And these traveling patients often save 40% to 80% on tests and procedures.
“Healthcare should be a universal right, but in the U.S. too many of us learn to measure pain against cost before we ever measure it against risk.”
natasha lópez
Health is wealth, sure, but so often that phrase sounds like a threat. Americans shouldn’t have to leave our country just to be seen by a doctor. Preventive care shouldn’t feel like something we do only when we can afford to be responsible. When I feel sick, or when the possibility of being truly seen by a doctor feels far away, I think about what waiting does to people. I think about how many of us are forced to become casual about symptoms because panic is too expensive. I’ve seen what happens when people wait too long, not because they want to, but because our healthcare system makes waiting feel like the only option. Healthcare should be a universal right, but in the U.S. too many of us learn to measure pain against cost before we ever measure it against risk.
The only regret I have about getting my medical care in Colombia this year is that I didn’t stay longer to have every lingering concern in my body checked. Traveling to Latin America has been more affordable for me, and the care I received there was also better. I am, of course, not the only Latina doing this. Below, five Latinas share their experiences traveling to Latin America and the Caribbean for healthcare, what pushed them out of the U.S. system, and what it means to feel cared for somewhere else.
Gracie, 27, Southern California
I’m originally from Southern California’s Imperial Valley, which is right on the Mexico-California border. Growing up, crossing into Mexico for medical care was very normal. I would go for physical exams, if I was sick, if I needed medication, dental cleanings, or even glasses. I would go four or five times a year just for medical care, and I know people who went more frequently.
Now that I’m living in New York, access to healthcare feels very different. In Mexico, sometimes you don’t even need a referral. You can just go in, tell them what the problem is, and they will help you. Here, you need referrals, insurance approval, appointments, and so many calls. I’m a student, and I don’t know how to do all these processes. It’s tedious. It’s taxing. I’m not used to it. There’s also the difference in cost. In Mexico, you pay $20, $30, $40, or maybe $100, if it’s specialized. Here, my partner just paid $350 for a physical. Flexibility is an issue, too. There, some places are open late or even 24 hours on weekends. Here, it takes weeks to get an appointment, and they’re only open during certain hours. If I’m at work, I have to call out, and I need that money. If I have class, I have to decide between class, work, or getting treatment.
I haven’t gone back to Mexico for care since moving because, on a good weekend, it’s maybe $400 to $600 to fly, and I’m on a limited income. Being away from the border has changed my security around healthcare. I can’t just walk or drive across and know I’m going to be seen by someone. I’ve always known healthcare in the U.S. was an issue, but now that I’m disconnected from the border, I feel it. Accessibility is so important to any social system, any human right. Healthcare in the U.S. isn’t treated like that.
Mariana Carolina, 27, New York
I’ve always gone back home for my annual checkups, things like endocrinology, gynecology, dermatology, and internal medicine. It’s become part of how I take care of myself, not just physically but mentally, too. Venezuela has a reputation for producing incredibly skilled doctors, people who are not only well-trained but deeply committed to their patients, and I’ve felt that firsthand. There’s a level of care and attention that feels very human. In the U.S., my experience has been the opposite. Appointments feel rushed, even transactional. Back home, I feel like my doctors are actually invested in my health.
In Venezuela, I pay everything out of pocket, but one consultation with my gynecologist is around $100, and that includes an ultrasound, pap smear, and STD testing, pretty much all the basics. In the U.S., even with insurance, something as basic as an ultrasound might not be covered unless you already have symptoms. And that’s always been confusing to me. How are you supposed to catch something early if you’re only tested once something is wrong?
But beyond the cost, it’s the feeling of actually being thoroughly examined and taken seriously that makes the biggest difference. Back home, I feel seen from start to finish. There’s no rushing, no cutting corners. They ask questions. They take their time. It feels like real care. For instance, last year, when I went to my gynecologist in Venezuela, she told me my ovaries were very swollen and that I likely had PCOS-related problems, which could affect my fertility if left untreated. That was the first time anyone had ever told me that, and I had been going to a gynecologist in the U.S. for years. So I was frustrated but also relieved. Like finally someone took the time to really look. Thankfully, I don’t have any severe illnesses, but that’s also what scares me because I genuinely don’t know if something would’ve been caught early if I had stayed within this system. At some point, choosing to leave for care stopped feeling like an option and started feeling like the only way to really take care of myself.
I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ll continue flying home once a year for my checkups. Even if it means paying for flights and planning around it, the peace of mind is worth it. Honestly, it feels like something I have to do. I’ve been in the U.S. for nine years, and I really tried to trust the system. But over time, I realized that unless you’re in pain or something is already wrong, it’s hard to be taken seriously. I don’t think it’s about individual doctors. I think a lot of them want to help. But the system, especially insurance, limits what they can actually do, and that’s where it breaks.
Maria, 36, New York
When I was living in New York, I would travel back to the Dominican Republic for any specialist, dentist, and imaging that I needed, whether it was X-rays or MRIs. What made me decide to seek treatment there was the cost. One time, I had to get an MRI of my knee in New York. Yes, I had insurance in the U.S., but my deductible was $1,600. They told me I hadn’t met it, so I would have to pay $1,600 for the MRI. A few months later, during a trip to DR, I decided to do it there. I got a doctor who ordered the MRI and we communicated via WhatsApp. Once there, I got an MRI of both knees, and it cost me $200.
Still, the main difference between care in the U.S. and the Dominican Republic is the way you are treated. In the U.S., you can be seen by two or three people before you see the specialist you came to see, and then that specialist sees you for a total of three minutes. Whereas in the Dominican Republic, you go to a doctor and you can spend a whole hour with them. They listen to you. They pay attention to what you’re telling them. And they try to reassure you that you’re going to get the care that you deserve. That, to me, is priceless.
I understand there is nuance, though. I was working in the U.S., earning money in U.S. dollars, and I was able to exchange those dollars for Dominican pesos. I know there is privilege in that. For Americans, $100 to see a specialist might feel like nothing, but for Dominicans working day to day to make ends meet, it is a lot of money. So I also have to look at it from that perspective. But that’s also what’s happening for people in the U.S., hardworking people who are trying to make ends meet are being forced to pay exorbitant amounts of money for basic medical care. The U.S. system is broken.
Amanda Wright Perez, 27, Brooklyn, NY
I have traveled to Bogotá, Colombia, for dental care, specifically gum contouring, a dental filling, and teeth whitening. The main reason I chose to do it in Latin America instead of the U.S. was cost and quality. In the U.S., gum contouring would’ve cost me anywhere from $3,000 to $6,000. In Colombia, I paid $250, and the results were amazing. While there, I also had a filling done. I had done it in the U.S., but it wasn’t done properly. Even after going back a second time, I was still in pain, and I felt like the issue wasn’t really being resolved. Since I was already in Colombia, I had it redone there for $120, and I haven’t had any pain or sensitivity since. Overall, I spent about $820 total for everything. In the U.S., that could’ve easily been several thousand dollars. I planned everything about four months in advance, so I knew what I needed to save, and even including my flight and hotel, it was still more affordable than doing it all in the U.S.
The quality of care in Bogotá was incredible. The dentists were extremely attentive, kind, and detail-oriented. They explained things clearly, took their time, and even gave me a full goodie bag with dental products after. In the U.S., my experience has often felt more rushed, like once they’re done, you’re out the door. In Colombia, I genuinely felt cared for, and that made a big difference. It’s honestly changed my perspective a lot. I’ve even started planning to go to Colombia once or twice a year for care because the experience is better, more affordable, and feels more personal.
Sofia Bukele, 38, Miami
Since I moved to the U.S. in 2018, I’ve been going back to my doctors in El Salvador. I go back to visit my gynecologist, dentist, and every regular checkup that I need to do. I go back because they know me, they know my history, they know everything. It’s easier, it’s faster, and I don’t have to wait several months just to get an appointment. Obviously, it’s cheaper, too. I usually pay around $40 to $60 per appointment there. Here, it’s basically whatever the out-of-pocket cost is depending on the insurance that I have, and even with insurance, it can still feel expensive and confusing.
I’ve never really liked the experience of healthcare here in the U.S. There have been times when I’ve gone with my sister to appointments, and she gets a QR code, and then a nurse comes in three or four times just to scan it before we even see the doctor. Then we still have to wait until the doctor comes. It feels very impersonal. Like you’re being processed through a system instead of being cared for by someone who knows you or is actually taking the time to listen. That’s why I try not to do any appointments here unless I really have to.
Honestly, it sucks. It’s really sad because the U.S. is such a great country with so much potential, and yet the health system feels like such a failure.
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