April is a special month.
This month, I celebrate a special day.
Not my birthday—but the birthday of a new beginning.
Three decades plus of living in the U.S.
My adopted homeland.
April is also Occupational Therapy Month, which feels especially meaningful to me, because it was my profession that first brought me to this country. A path I once thought would be temporary quietly became the doorway to an entirely new life.
I arrived here young—naive, perhaps even a little ignorant.
I truly believed in the words, “all men are created equal.”
And for a long time, I stayed that way—holding on to that belief, untouched, unquestioned.
Like any journey, it has been a ride—
a mix of joy, confusion, growth, and quiet resilience.
I moved here in a time before Google Maps, before GPS, before cell phones.
Whatever little I knew about America came from Hollywood movies and the fiction I had read.
I didn’t know what to expect—only that I was excited.
Some of my first impressions are still vivid in my mind.
Sadly, there are no pictures to go with them—I didn’t own a camera back then.
Maybe that’s why those memories feel even more personal… preserved only in the heart.
What was meant to be a two-year stint quietly unfolded into a lifetime.
A life built one “first” at a time.
First winters
First friendships.
First car.
First misunderstandings.
First moments of belonging.
I navigated much of it with the kindness of colleagues and neighbors—people who became my first anchors in a foreign land.
Slowly, I adapted—to the culture, the weather, the pace of life.
And along the way, I met people from all over the world.
America, in many ways, has been kind to me… to us.
But like everything else, even ideals evolve.
While much of the world continues to struggle with access to basic needs—food, water, electricity—we find ourselves grappling with issues like gun control.
So much so that there is a day like National Gun Violence Awareness Day.
I suppose “first world” comes with its own set of complexities.
And then there are conversations that leave me unsettled—
like women’s reproductive rights being debated and decided by rooms largely filled with men.
They say: Go vote. Speak up. Your voice matters.
So I did.
I exercised that right.
I have learned that
not every event needs to be attended,
not every battle needs to be fought,
and not every relationship needs to be held close to the heart.
Yes, I still get angry.
Maybe I was born with that fire in me.
But I’ve also learned where to place it… and where to let it go.
If you were to ask me what I love most about living here, my answer would be simple:
the vastness of its green spaces, the quiet beauty of its national parks,
and something as fundamental—and powerful—as the 911 emergency system.
Because sometimes, what defines a place isn’t just its ideals or its conflicts…
but the way it holds you through it all.
Thirty years later, I am still learning, still unlearning, still becoming.
And maybe that, in itself, is the journey, and maybe that is the quiet truth of it all.
My ramblings on this special day.
If you look back, what stands out most from your own years of becoming?
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