When I came to America 12 years ago, I arrived in pursuit of better education and freedom. For the first time, I was choosing what was best for me—as a girl who deserved equal opportunity. I thought I would finally be able to fulfill my mother’s dream. But she passed away in 2022, and I could never give her what she truly deserved: a happy, safe, and peaceful life. For her, just a house.
That guilt follows me everywhere. Every time I sit in my room here, I think of the house my mother never lived to see. Soft light pours in from every side, slipping through the windows and settling on the family pictures I’ve placed around the room. When I open the window, the smell of fresh air and the sight of trees outside remind me of the greenery she always dreamed of having in a home of her own. Maybe that’s why this room is the only place where I truly feel like myself. Her pictures watch over me, pulling me back to the familiarity of home.
My family back in Afghanistan lives in a place where peace is rare and opportunities are rarer. They have less than I do. Less food, less safety, less hope for a future that feels fair.
I carry their souls with me.
My mother’s hands, rough and bleeding from crocheting washcloths and sweaters nonstop to pay for my tuition. She would quietly sell them to her sisters and cousins to avoid shame and embarrassment; where we come from, it is often not accepted for women to work or sell goods publicly.
My nephews’ and siblings’ laughter, which has grown quieter with time.
The way my father refused to ask for help even when he needed it.
It’s all with me, like my shadow. My inner voice.
Every morning I wake up to the same sounds: cars; my neighbor’s loud music; my other neighbor walking her dog, Flash. I make my saffron tea. I scroll through messages and the news. Life moves forward as usual. Inside me, a small persistent ache waits.
As a child, I used to sit by the window of my mother’s room at sunset, writing and looking up at the sky. I would watch planes tracing white lines across the clouds and tell myself: One day, that will be me. I dreamed of becoming a pilot, of flying like a bird, of traveling the world and living freely. I imagined myself soaring but always with my family in my heart, in my prayers, in my dreams. I whisper, God, help me get where I want to go, but with my family beside me.
That prayer is still with me. Even now, when people look at my life and think I should be happy, I feel the heavy truth. My family has nothing, and without them, all my achievements feel empty.
I carry both grief and gratitude.
