Between Two Worlds: Privilege, Migration, and Belonging

I settled onto the couch in my parents’ basement with a cup of coffee, Debussy lightly playing in the background, and opened my email. The contract was in French, which meant I’d have to copy and paste each section into Google Translate to understand it.

Only months earlier, I had gone through this same process, sitting in an office in Mexico City, phone in hand, scanning each page of an apartment contract. It feels strange to be doing it again–and in French, no less.

The switch from one language to another feels abrupt. Just weeks ago, I was in Mexico, running sentences through my head before speaking them, and now, I’m back to studying vocabulary lists, fully realizing that in just a few weeks, I’ll be processing my residency visa, completing my apartment inventory, and setting up Wi-Fi in a language I really don’t know.

Language, of course, is one of the biggest challenges when moving to another country. It affects everything–from buying spices at the grocery store to scheduling hair appointments, not to mention trying to explain how you actually want your hair cut. Then there are the trickier tasks: setting up a bank account, finding a doctor, and navigating the tax systems and visa renewal requirements.

Immigrating to another country is never easy. There are procedures to navigate, cultural norms to understand, and the added pressure that comes from needing to renew your visa each year. It’s a process that leaves you feeling uncertain at every turn. Even with resources, a familiarity of the city, and friends in Paris offering support every step of the way, it’s still difficult.

For my residency appointment, I spent nearly 40 hours preparing my dossier–gathering documents like bank account information, tax forms, pay stubs, work contracts, my portfolio, and letters of support from clients and businesses in Paris. And then there’s the financial cost of insurance, finger prints, processing fees, agencies, guarantors. It’s not cheap.

I had everything organized in a folder and knew I met the requirements, yet I still woke early the morning of my appointment with a knot of anxiety. It was the lack of control I had in the situation that made me nervous. I had gathered the necessary documents to the best of my ability and then placed my fate into the hands of someone else. ‘Please like me,’ I thought to myself as he flipped through my materials with a gruffness that I eventually wore down with my overly friendly Midwestern ways.

Making small talk, I asked an employee at the processing center if they had seen an increase in people trying to leave the U.S. under the current administration. At first, he said no without much of an explanation, but later, when we were alone in the biometrics room, he admitted that he thought most people who want to leave don’t have the resources to do so.

There is great privilege in my ability to move from one country to another. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights states that everyone has the right to live safely and freely, but the reality is that not everyone has the same opportunities to do so.

When I left the U.S. in 2021, I was surprised to receive emails and texts telling me how brave I was. Sure, I made some risky decisions–quitting my full-time job for an uncertain world of freelancing and selling everything I owned–but it wasn’t bravery. I was simply living my life in the way that made, and still makes, the most sense to me. I’ve always longed for something different.

Bravery belongs to the mothers and fathers who pack up their children and spend months fleeing dangerous situations, hoping for a better life. They migrate through extreme landscapes–rivers, mountains, deserts, and the open sea–facing dehydration, hunger, and the constant threat of smugglers and those who seek to exploit them further. And this doesn’t even take into account the challenge of rebuilding their lives in a new place–one they didn’t choose, as I did, but are fleeing to out of necessity.

Migration, at its core, is an act of hope–and of courage.

When I lived in St. Louis, I volunteered with an organization that accompanied people to their required immigration check-in appointments. In the small waiting room, the walls were lined with tone-deaf motivational posters about determination, positivity, and other completely irrelevant– and honestly offensive–messages, given how the staff treated the people with appointments.

It was as if they were saying, ‘We’re going to treat you however we want, and we might even deport you, but keep a smile on your face. Stay positive!’ During one visit, I sat with a woman from Honduras who shared pictures of her children, whom she had to leave behind in order to build a life in the U.S. so she could eventually send for them. Her eyes lit up when she spoke about her kids, though her voice was heavy with sorrow.

Of course, the situation in the U.S. is even more dire now, and I wonder about the Honduran woman. Is she safe? Where is she? Is she with her family?

Tourists with the proper visas are being denied entry and detained at the border, legal residents with green cards are being deported, and hundreds of men–I presume unjustly–are being labeled as gang members, despite no evidence being released and their families denying the accusations. Shackled and dehumanized, these men are being sent to an El Salvadoran prison.

The U.S. has abandoned the very ideals it was built on–freedom, democracy, and hope. Once a symbol of these values, the Statue of Liberty now stands as a hollow reminder of what has been lost. The diversity of cultures and people has always been my favorite thing about the U.S., and it’s heartbreaking to see it dismantled while so many suffer unjustly.

It no longer feels like home.

As I pack for France, I feel a mix of emotions–gratitude for the opportunity, disgust at what’s unfolding in my own country, and a deep frustration that the privileges of my passport are not extended to others.

Everyone should be able to act on their right to flee persecution and violence, to seek asylum, to build a safer, better life. But for many, that right is merely an illusion–determined not by ambition or resilience, but by borders, bureaucracy, and luck. We need to do better.