v17 A Love Letter to the Immigrant Spirit

Before I jointed Startups, before I became a mom, before I found my voice in rooms I once felt lucky just to be in — I was just someone trying to stay in the U.S.. Quietly, carefully, anxiously.

This is the story behind all the other stories I’ve shared. The part of my life I haven’t talked about in a long time. When a coworker’s departure cracked something open in me, I realized it was time to share it — not just for myself, but for the many others still navigating this same uncertain path.

If you’ve ever worked with someone on a visa, loved someone who had to fight to stay, or been that someone — this one’s for you.

One Immigrant’s Story

Last week, I heard a coworker of mine was leaving the U.S.. Not because he wanted to. Not because of performance issues or layoffs. It's all because the government simply hadn’t reviewed his visa renewal for months. And the deadline was up.

I asked if he wanted to talk. When I first saw him, I didn’t say anything. I just pulled him into a hug — and he didn’t let go. His body was trembling. His heart was pounding. I could feel the weight he was carrying.

Everyone at work loves him. He’s the kind of person you want on every team — hardworking, collaborative, always lifting others up. Kind. Gentle. Thoughtful. And, honestly, the best-dressed guy in the office. He made work better — not simply through his output, but through the kindness he carried into every interaction.

We sat down to talk. His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking. I held them as he told me his story: His dad passed away during COVID. Then the war started. He and his wife fled Ukraine—three countries in five years. Constant transition. Constant survival.

They were granted a special two-year visa to come to the U.S., and for a moment, it felt like life had finally begun. He loved his job, his coworkers, the community they had built. They had routines, friendships, laughter. He was building a life here.

With no update on their renewal and time running out, they have to leave. They didn’t choose this. They didn’t break any rules. They’re leaving because it’s the only way to protect their future—by avoiding even a single day of ‘illegal’ stay.

And where would they return to?

In the past year, two of his close friends had to go back to Ukraine. Both were drafted into the army. Both were sent to fight. Both were gone—dead—just weeks later.

He is in his twenties. Gentle. Talented. Full of life. He didn’t ask for this war. And he shouldn’t have to die in it just to prove that he deserves to live.

Now they’re leaving. Again. Uprooting. Again. Saying goodbye to a life they worked so hard to build, just to avoid being punished for overstaying by even a day.

All because of silence.

When I Finally Felt Safe Enough to Dream

Sitting across from my coworker, I felt the old fear stir inside me — fear I hadn’t thought about in years. Not since I got my green card. That was five, maybe six years ago.

It wasn’t just a legal status change. It was the first time I felt like I could truly exhale. Like my future wasn’t hanging on a fragile thread of paperwork and wait times. It was also the moment my husband and I started seriously thinking about having children.

Before that? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t imagine going through pregnancy or raising a child while living in that kind of uncertainty. The constant fear of being uprooted, delayed, denied. That kind of stress multiplies when you're responsible for someone else’s life, too.

His story reminded me of what I had buried: the years when I couldn’t leave the country. Missed family events. Watched friends travel while I stayed put. And the period when I couldn’t legally work — paused, not by will, but by paperwork. No end date. No answers.

I was lucky. I had a stable job, a supportive manager, and a loving partner, and the means to take a break. I even signed up for a 10-day solo camping trip in Arizona — just to reclaim a sense of control. Not everyone is that lucky.

The Quiet Class of Extraordinary Immigrants

And the truth is, I’ve spent most of my career working alongside immigrants just like me — people who came here with dreams, degrees, and this quiet-but-ferocious determination to make it. People who’ve had to fight to stay, to prove, to belong.

They are their own kind of tribe.

Different skin colors. Different countries. Different cultures. And yet, they carry something deeply familiar: the weight of expectation, and the unspoken pressure to be extraordinary just to be seen as enough.

They work so hard. It wasn't just that they’re ambitious. It was about proving themselves more. There’s no room for “average” when your entire right to be here feels conditional.

Many of them speak English as a second (or third, or fourth) language. That means they may not always speak up first in meetings. They may pause a second longer when searching for the right word. They may not crack as many jokes or take up as much space in casual conversation.

Don’t mistake that for a lack of brilliance.

What I’ve seen — time and time again — is grit. Immigrants often use hard work as a kind of armor. They put their heads down and grind — not just to succeed, but to belong. To earn the right to stay. To be irreplaceable.

And sometimes? That’s the part people don’t see.

Most of the immigrants in my world are white-collar workers. Engineers. Analysts. Founders. We come here with skills, ambition, and heart. Behind every title and resume is a trail of fear, bureaucracy, and uncertainty that no LinkedIn profile will ever show you.

We don’t talk about it much. It’s exhausting to relive. And sometimes, it’s just easier to focus on the next step forward.

Then again my coworker reminded me. The weight. The silence. The helplessness. I know it intimately.

To Those Still on the Journey

If you’re still somewhere on the path — applying, waiting, proving, navigating transitions — I want to speak to you for a moment.

I see you.

I see the weight you carry—doing your job while navigating the unspoken pressure of staying. To stay visible. To stay valuable.

I know what it’s like to feel that doing well isn’t enough—you have to do more, be more, just to stay in the game. I know how exhausting it is to keep your voice steady in a language that isn’t your first. I know how lonely it can feel when people around you talk about “home” as a given, not a privilege.

Please know this: your effort, your grit, your courage — it matters. Even if no one claps for it. Even if it’s invisible to most people around you. I promise, it’s shaping you in ways you may not even realize yet.

You are not behind. You are not less-than. You are becoming — stronger, wiser, more grounded in who you are. And also? The life you’ve been building, the one you’ve been quietly hoping for—it’s be coming too.

Keep going. You're closer than you think.

Every delay, every obstacle, every form, every “not yet” — they’re all building something in you. Strength. Perspective. Depth. Empathy.

It may not feel like it right now, but you’re growing through this. You’re learning how to bend without breaking. How to keep showing up, even when you’re tired. How to claim space in systems that weren’t built for you.

And when the day comes that you finally get to exhale, I hope you pause and recognize the person you’ve become. More than someone who made it through — someone who transformed along the way.

Keep going. You’re doing so much better than you think.

What You Can Do

If you were born as a U.S. citizen, you may never have had to wonder if your right to stay in the country would disappear because someone didn’t process your form in time.

That’s a privilege.

So here’s what I'd like to invite to do:

• Talk to your immigrant coworkers/friends.
• Ask about their journey — if they’re willing to share.
• Listen for the pauses.
• Notice what’s not being said.
• Remember that their fear doesn’t make them weak — it means they’ve had to be strong in ways most people will never understand.

And above all, don’t assume someone’s visa story is over just because they look like they have it all together.

Thanks for swinging by this part of the journey. Some stories aren't easy to tell — and yet, they shape everything that comes after. If this resonated with you, share it with someone who needs to feel seen today.

Until next time!