This week, almost by chance, I stumbled upon Robert Frost’s timeless poem, “The Road Not Taken”. Its magic lies in how it transforms each time you read it, taking you back to a different chapter of your life. As I read it again, I realized—today marks exactly 15 years since I stepped off a plane at JFK Airport in New York. That day, unknowingly, I began writing the first page of my immigrant story.
Time is a strange and elusive thing. We measure it in neat units—seconds, minutes, years, decades—but how it truly feels is deeply personal. Still, 15 years seems like a fair stretch to pause and ask: was the road I took worth it?
Without hesitation, my answer is yes. It was not just a decision—it was a calling. That moment of departure shaped who I am today. And if there’s one word that defines me best, it’s “immigrant”. Not expat, not foreigner—immigrant. Migration is part of our human story. Some move in search of opportunity, others out of necessity, and some simply follow the instinct to explore. Whether we move across oceans or to the next town, in many ways, we are all migrants.
And yet, it is disheartening to hear the rising tide of anti-immigrant rhetoric—even from within the U.S. government. It ignores the depth and dignity behind each journey and the contributions immigrants make every day. Especially in this country.
So, what have I gathered in my luggage over these 15 years? Not a house. Not a car. Nothing particularly grand in material terms. But what I do have is invaluable: the experience of a life lived across cultures. I’ve learned a new language, traveled to many countries, built lasting friendships, and met souls who’ve left their mark on mine. These aren’t experiences exclusive to immigrants—but living abroad, immersed in another culture, has given me a unique lens through which to understand the world and myself.
So hurray to every human being who crosses deserts, oceans, barbed wire, and borders—sometimes guarded by ICE—for the chance to shape a better life and author their own story. Your journey matters. Your path is valid.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost