Degrees Lost in Translation: The Silent Struggle of Skilled Immigrants

Every year, thousands of educated and skilled professionals are forced to leave their countries due to war, political instability, or threats to their lives and families. Many of these individuals—doctors, engineers, university professors, and teachers—arrive in new lands full of hope. They carry not only their personal belongings but years of education, work experience, and dreams. But soon they face a painful truth: in the new land, their degrees are not recognized, and their titles mean almost nothing. They must start over—from zero.

This is the story of one such woman from Afghanistan. She spent more than seventeen years in the pursuit of education. She graduated from high school with high honors, went on to university, and eventually earned both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in medicine. Back home, she held a respected position. She was not just a doctor; she was a leader. She supervised medical teams, taught students, and treated hundreds of patients with compassion and care. Her identity was rooted in knowledge, service, and hard-earned professional pride.

She was once the supervisor of over thirty cleaning staff. She organized daily operations, delegated tasks, monitored hygiene standards, and reported to higher management. She was respected, trusted, and seen as a strong professional woman in a society where it wasn’t easy to earn such regard.

But when life in her homeland became unsafe—especially for women professionals and for mothers—she had no choice but to leave. She migrated to the United States, not for luxury, but for survival. She brought along her children, including one child with special needs, determined to give them a safe and secure life. What she didn’t expect was the invisible cost of migration—the slow erasure of her identity.

Despite having two academic degrees, the only job offer she received was as a cleaner.

The words she heard—“We can only offer you a cleaning job”—cut deep. Not because cleaning is shameful. Every job has dignity. But for someone who had worked so hard, who had touched lives as a healer, who had built herself through knowledge and service, the offer felt like a painful erasure of her existence. Her years of sacrifice, her nights of studying, her moments of saving lives—all suddenly seemed to vanish.

For migrant women, starting over is doubly difficult. In addition to professional barriers, they often face cultural expectations, language hurdles, and a lack of support systems. And if they are mothers, especially to children with special needs, their emotional and physical exhaustion multiplies. But this woman did not surrender to hopelessness. She enrolled in English classes, took driving lessons, and began researching how to re-qualify as a doctor in the U.S. Each night, after putting her children to bed, she opened her books again—this time, not as a student of medicine, but as a student of perseverance.

Migration does not just challenge your resume; it challenges your spirit. It makes you doubt your worth. It forces you to ask: “Am I still who I was?” And yet, within this deep discomfort lies a hidden power—the ability to reinvent, to adapt, and to rise once again.

This woman’s story is not unique. It reflects the silent struggles of thousands of highly educated immigrants who, despite their qualifications, are forced into survival jobs. Their stories often remain untold. But these are not stories of failure. They are stories of resilience, determination, and silent courage.

It is time for the host society to look beyond labels and recognize the invisible talents that walk among them. The cashier at your local store might once have been a university professor. The Uber driver might be a former engineer. The woman cleaning hospital rooms may once have performed surgeries in her homeland. They are not burdens—they are unseen assets.

One day, this woman will wear her white coat again. Her future patients may never know the uphill journey she walked to get there. But they will feel the love and care of a doctor who fought through darkness, not just to heal others—but to heal herself.