What My Immigrant Parents Never Told Me About Starting Over

What My Immigrant Parents Never Told Me About Starting Over

They never told me that starting over meant forgetting parts of yourself so your children could remember all of theirs.

My parents never sat me down to explain what it meant to leave behind a language, a city, a rhythm of life so deeply woven into their skin that it still shaped the way they stirred tea or answered the phone. They never said starting over would make them ghosts of the people they once were—haunting a new land with old dreams they could no longer afford to chase.

They never told me that every grocery store would be a battle. That they'd read food labels like sacred texts, searching for signs of familiarity—halal, no gelatin, less salt. That the price tags would feel like guilt, not just numbers. “Too much,” my mother would whisper, returning the cheese I loved to the cold metal shelf.

They didn’t tell me how much they'd miss being understood. The small talk with neighbors. The jokes that made sense. The news that mentioned cities they knew. They smiled politely in American waiting rooms while trying to explain in broken English where it hurt, hoping someone would see beyond the accent and into the pain.

They didn’t tell me that “starting over” meant cleaning offices at midnight with degrees in engineering folded in the back of their wallets. That my father’s hands—once used to design buildings in Karachi—would become callused by brooms, not blueprints.

Instead, they said, “We came for you.”

And I believed them.

But I didn’t understand them.

Not really.

As a child, I resented the distance between us—not physical, but invisible. A silence that grew every year I got more fluent in English, more American, more free.

At school, I learned words like “field trip,” “cafeteria,” and “prom.” At home, they gave me roti, duas, and curfews. The two worlds never spoke the same language, and I was always translating, always choosing.

“Don’t talk back to your teacher.”

“Don’t wear too much makeup.”

“Don’t forget who you are.”

But who was I?

Was I the girl who got straight A’s and listened to Coldplay, or the one who recited Quran beside her grandmother during summer visits?

Was I American, or was I…a guest here?

They never told me that I would carry their sacrifice like an unspoken debt. That every success of mine would feel like something borrowed. Every award, every diploma, every job offer—stamped not just with my name, but with their hunger, their aching backs, their silences.

I didn’t realize that they had buried their ambitions so mine could bloom.

My mother once wanted to be a writer. She loved poetry—Faiz, Ghalib, Parveen Shakir. Now she scribbles grocery lists in Roman Urdu and reads WhatsApp messages out loud to keep up with family thousands of miles away.

My father dreamed of designing bridges. Now he watches YouTube videos about construction while eating dinner from a plastic container after his night shift.

They never told me that starting over meant becoming invisible in service of their children’s visibility.

And yet, here’s what they also never told me:

That starting over makes you resilient in ways that no school can teach.

That laughter can survive oceans.

That even when their English stuttered, their love never did.

They didn’t say, “You belong here.”

But every lunch they packed, every parent-teacher conference they attended in stiff clothes they didn’t understand the purpose of—that was their way of saying it.

They never told me that starting over means trusting your child to become something you yourself don’t fully recognize, but love anyway.

They never told me—but they showed me—how to rebuild a life with bruised hands and hopeful hearts.

Now, as I stand in line for my graduate degree, speak at conferences, pay my own bills, and debate politics over coffee with friends, I wonder if I’ve made them proud.

They still don’t say much.

But when my father waits for me in the car after a long shift just to drive me home from the train station—

When my mother irons my clothes for an interview I never asked her to—

I know.

In their quiet way, they’re saying:

“You are the life we started over for.”

And I finally understand.