This morning, I learned that my grandad in Ethiopia passed away. It hit me harder than I expected. I’m in the US, trying to pursue my PhD, and somehow life just keeps moving here, even when a part of my heart is breaking thousands of miles away.
His death made me think deeply about something I’ve been trying to ignore. What if it had been my parents? What if something happened to them while I’m here chasing this dream? I’m not ready for that. I don’t think I’ll ever be. It feels cruel, this distance. It feels unfair.
I remembered something today—just a few years ago, I used to proudly tell my friends that I had all four of my grandparents alive. It felt special, like I was carrying a blessing others didn’t have. And now, I’m down to just my two grandmas. It happened so fast. And I wasn’t there for most of it. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Being away from my family has been the hardest part of this journey. I’m trying to build a better life, but the cost is so high. I barely get to spend time with the people I love most. And even when I do visit, it's not simple. The last time I went home, I couldn’t even relax. I was so anxious about whether I’d get my visa renewed, whether I’d be allowed to return to continue my studies. That constant fear doesn’t let me breathe, doesn’t let me enjoy the moments that are supposed to give me strength.
Now I’m here, grieving in silence, alone in a place that doesn’t pause for your pain. I keep asking myself: Is it all worth it? What’s the point of building a future if it means losing pieces of my present? How long is this going to go on—this cycle of sacrifice, fear, and longing?
I’m tired.