20 Nomadic Years

It’s been twenty years since I came to the U.S., and it still feels surreal. When I say twenty years out loud, it sounds like something distant, yet inside it feels like just yesterday. I was twenty-four when I came here, so I’ve now spent nearly half my life in this country. My adulthood was shaped here, yet my heart has never really left Ethiopia. It still lives in Addis.

If you're looking for an inspiring story about someone who dreamed of coming to America, who wanted to see Disneyland or get a world-class education, who overcame obstacles and achieved everything they ever wanted, this isn't that story. Mine is not the story of the American Dream. I never aspired to come here, longed for life in the U.S., or fantasized about bright lights or whatever else people picture when they think of opportunity.

And that quiet resistance has followed me for two decades. It shows up in moments I can’t predict in the form of a longing I can’t always explain. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not minimizing the blessings I’ve experienced here. My life in the U.S. hasn’t been bad. I’ve had good jobs, access to healthcare, and stability in many ways that most people envy. But the deeper truth is more complicated, and I also can’t ignore the question that lingers: was it worth it?

On Labels and Outsiderness

No one should leave their country of origin. Immigration can make you feel like an orphan; a fish out of water, as the Amharic proverb goes. When you migrate, especially to a country like the U.S., you are forever marked as an outsider. You carry the label “immigrant” for life. You might embrace it, even wear it as a badge of honor. But the only reason you have to “own” it is because you’re constantly reminded that you don’t belong.

You’re not called an “expat,” even if you came with education, skills, and experience. Your contributions are framed as opportunities for you, not as value to the country. That never goes away.

On Cultural Invisibility

As an Ethiopian, I come from a culture rich in tradition, language, and faith. We follow a different calendar, which means our holidays like Fasika (Easter) or Gena (Christmas) are out of sync with the world around us. In Ethiopia, holidays have a citywide rhythm. You fast together. You feast together. You show up to work the next day still glowing with the aftertaste of celebration.

Here you have to work on your holidays unless you take time off. You need to explain, plan, and ask permission. At home, even the air smells different during holidays. You see traditional clothes on the streets, hear people talking about the feast, and feel the celebration in your bones. Here, you prepare alone and eat with perhaps a small group of other immigrants. The only joy is the defiance of remembering. I miss the ease, the collective joy, the feeling that the world around me is in sync.

On Friendship

Another loss that comes with migration is friendship. Growing up, schools and universities create environments where friendships blossom organically. In adulthood, especially as an immigrant, you’re thrown into workplaces filled with people of varying ages and cultural backgrounds. That’s hard enough. Add the challenge of making connections in a place where social cues are foreign to you. Over time, friendships from home fade. If you don’t have extended family here, the absence of meaningful friendships leaves a unique void.

On Weather

This topic often goes undiscussed, but it matters: weather. U.S. and Ethiopia don’t just differ in time zones; they differ in how the sun greets you. Ethiopia has the consistency of sunrise and warmth. In the U.S., the sun might not rise until 8 a.m. in winter and disappear by 4:30 p.m. The shift throws off your circadian rhythm, sense of time, and mood. There’s also the cold. This is not a small adjustment for someone like me, who thrives in sunlight and greenery. It’s a deep, physical, and emotional strain. I don’t think it is just me. Think about the number of people who told you they are Vitamin D deficient.

On The System and Its Unnamed Barriers

We use the word “system” in our communities, especially among other immigrants. But what is the system, really? It’s not one thing. It’s a million tiny barriers. It’s what you feel when your holidays aren’t acknowledged, when you are constantly asked where you are from, when your experiences are questioned, when your grief has no place.

Think about the personal adjustments we make to find our place in society. As success is defined by individual achievement, you’re expected to hustle now, live later. The focus on retirement and the future often overshadows the present. The now becomes something to endure.

That’s the system.

On Memory
The other day, it started raining, and I instinctively thought, “Did I bring the laundry inside?” I haven’t even done laundry in Ethiopia, but the memory still lives in me, like how I still bow my head when a driver lets me cross the street or impulsively say እኔን when something sudden happens to someone. These gestures are markers of who I used to be, refusing to leave.

Looking back, I see that much has changed, but the essence of who I am remains, along with the prayer book gifted to me before I left. It has never failed to ground me. It is that and my mother’s prayers, then and now, that have carried me through.

So what does this all mean?

It means that my story is not one of triumph or tragedy. It’s the quiet, complicated story of staying afloat in two worlds, of building something real in a place that never quite felt like home. There have been moments of joy. I’ve met people I never would have met otherwise. I’ve shared laughter, tears, and milestones. For those things, I’m grateful.

Today, I bought myself a cake to mark twenty years. It slipped from my hands and hit the ground, breaking apart before I could taste it. And honestly, that felt perfect. This life hasn’t been neat. It hasn’t always been sweet. But it’s mine. Messy, cracked, and still worth honoring.