I sit here, tears quietly slipping down my face, and ask myself the question that has been haunting me lately: Who am I?
Who am I in this land that isn’t mine? In a place where I feel like I’ve been stripped of the very essence of who I am. The silence around me only amplifies the noise in my head, the questions, the doubts.
I’ve always been a creative. Back home, that part of me thrived. I could think of an idea in a moment, and before the thought even settled, I was on it… planning, pitching, building something out of nothing. I wasn’t afraid to chase ideas, to dream loudly, to go all in.
But here? Here, it feels like my creativity has been stifled, like I’ve been boxed in by circumstances I can’t control. The language, the system, the sheer foreignness of it all; it’s like a cage, and I’m banging on the bars, trying to remind myself who I am.
Back home, I was so alive. I was brimming with energy and ideas. I went through every means to grow, to earn, to create. I ran my business, went out with friends, soaked in the joy of the people and places around me. I was a mother who provided for her kids, a woman who wasn’t afraid to live boldly.
Now, I look at myself and barely recognize who I’ve become. I feel stuck, weighed down by this different life. The person who used to radiate joy and purpose now sits here, lost. The spark that once lit up my every move feels dim, like a candle flickering in the wind.
And so I ask again: Who am I? Am I still that vibrant, creative person? Or have I become someone else, someone I don’t yet understand?
Migration changes you. It forces you to confront parts of yourself you never thought you’d question. It strips you bare, leaving you to figure out who you are in a world that doesn’t yet know you. And on days like this, when I feel the weight of it all, I wonder if I’ll ever fully find myself again.
Just as I’m about to sink deeper into my thoughts, I pause, look up, and see her sitting across from me. She’s telling me this story… her story. Her tears, her questions, her doubts. And as I listen, I realize her words feel so familiar, as if she’s speaking not just for herself but for me too.
Maybe that’s the thing about migration… It’s not just a personal journey; it’s a shared one. A universal question we’re all trying to answer in our own way: Who am I now?
