POST 6: COMING TO AMERICA

When we finally moved to Los Angeles in January of 1996, I left behind that nightmare. But the scars of betrayal and pain followed me, shaping how I saw myself and those around me. It was the beginning of a long journey toward healing—a journey that, to this day, continues to shape who I am and what I stand for.

Moving to the U.S. felt like the start of something new, something exciting. But that excitement quickly turned into something darker. I was severely depressed for almost a year. I had left everything behind—my friends, the boy in my class I was desperately in love with, even though I never had the courage to tell him.

But as I adjusted to this new country, new experiences and new friends helped me slowly crawl out of that dark place. For the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of happiness. I started dating, going to parties, living a bit wildly. Life was beginning to feel good again. But despite everything we went through together, my mother and I didn’t really grow closer. There was an unspoken distance between us, something neither of us was willing to cross.

Our life in Los Angeles wasn’t easy. Two months after we arrived, we were kicked out of our apartment. Standing on the street with two suitcases, I remember saying to my mother, ‘Thank God LA is warm; we can just sleep right here,’ as I pointed to a bus bench. But a kind woman took us in, and we slowly rebuilt our lives. For a few months, we slept on the floor in our new place, but little by little, we got furniture, found our footing, and kept going.

Life continued its ups and downs. I dated, fell in love, and thought I had found someone to share my life with, but he betrayed me. I left, but eventually, I met the man who would become my husband, a man 19 years older than me. We had a daughter, and for a moment, it felt like things were finally steady. Holding her tiny hand in mine, seeing her smile, and hearing her first giggles—these were the moments that reminded me of the love I’d always longed for.

But history has a way of repeating itself. When my daughter was just a year and a half, I left her father. For a time, I was angry, and I kept her from him, thinking I was protecting her from the same heartache I’d known. But one day, as I watched her play, it hit me—I was repeating the cycle. I didn’t want her to grow up with the same pain, the same longing for a father figure that I had. I wanted her to have a choice, to feel loved and supported, and to know that her relationship with her father was hers alone.

So I called him and told him she was his child too, and that I wouldn’t stand in the way of their relationship. When she was old enough to understand, I explained to her that my feelings toward her father were my own. He was her dad, and whatever relationship they built was theirs to make. Watching her grow up with that freedom, unburdened by my past, was like seeing a different path for our family, one where love and connection could thrive without the pain we’d both known. I was determined to give her the chance I never had. 

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