In August, a fresh wave of emotions hit me, just as powerfully as they did nine years ago, when my immigrant journey first began. Back then, stepping foot in the U.S. felt like stepping into a childhood dream realized—a leap into the unknown, buoyed by hope, excitement, and the ever-present undercurrent of uncertainty. I remember those first days: every street was unfamiliar, every moment pulsed with equal parts possibility and anxiety.
This August, those emotions resurfaced—not with the thrill of beginnings, but with a quieter, more unsettling question: what happens after the immigrant’s dream is achieved?
That question found me in my living room—surrounded by the markers of what I once longed for: a stable job, a place to call home, the documentation that lets me live and work here. But the excitement I used to feel had faded, replaced by a nagging sense of discomfort. Irritation, even. I found myself asking, sometimes out loud: “So, Grace, how do you find purpose again?”
These questions have lingered since August, marking my ninth year in America. Despite all I’ve accomplished, I can’t ignore that starting over here meant beginning from zero. The sacrifices—distance from family, missing milestones with peers back home—sometimes feel heavier now than ever before.
Toni Morrison, in Song of Solomon, wrote: “You think dark is just one color, but it ain’t. There’re five or six kinds of black. Some like fingers. And it don’t stay still. It moves and changes from one kind of black to another…” My immigration experience, too, isn’t one-dimensional. The shades of joy, loss, ambition, and nostalgia shift and blend, never quite settling.
Lately, I’ve noticed myself slipping into survival mode, letting go of ambitions that once energized me. My blog, my footwear line—projects that once brought me so much joy—have faded into the background. After reaching certain milestones, it’s as if I lost the drive to sustain what I’d built.
For the first time, I’m sitting with what it truly means to be an immigrant—not only the triumphs, but the costs. My past annual reflections leaned into gratitude and growth. But now, with Morrison’s words echoing in my mind, I see the different shades of darkness. I’m ready to reclaim the momentum and ambition that once defined my journey.
My blog—a steadfast companion for 17 years—has been my compass through so many transitions. Writing this late, missing my usual celebratory post deadline, and feeling the weight of a writer’s slump, I realize this is part of my story, too. Better late than never.
I’ve lost much in the process of becoming: the pride I once took in American institutions, the comfort of believing in the American dream, and other things I can’t quite name. Yet, despite these losses, something like optimism is stirring. I sense the possibility of regaining what I’ve lost—maybe even tenfold.
So here I am, ready to document this next phase—grounded by all that came before, but looking forward with hope. The journey continues, and I’m curious to see where it leads next.
