It was my last year of high school when my mother passed. For days, it it was unimaginable to do be able to move forward, to even eat or go to school. As someone whose dream stemmed off her own mothers dream, it was hard to imagine a future where I had to live without her. How would I be able to stay motivated? Where would the light come from? My mother spent her years supporting three children in a foreign country, attempting to learn the language and keep us afloat. Struggling with being lower income, what we missed out on at the table was unknown to us. Instead, our mother made us still feel like we were living in a dream. She taught us relentless gratitude, how to find the beauty in every minor detail we came across. For so long, none of us really even knew how much we were struggling financially, but as you grow older, it’s hard to avoid those harsh realities. At first, when my mother passed, I imagined my future without university, as I thought it would be nearly impossible to attain an education. However, I could not put past her own dream, and I knew, now, I was living for two people: her, and myself. This gave me a strength in myself that I did not imagine could exist. For so long, my grief only taught me pain, but there came a time where I noticed something else rising in me: hope. Hope that I could be what she wanted me to be. Hope that I could be even more. Hope that, while I was living, she was watching over me with proud eyes and a bright smile. I decided not only to enrol in university, but to challenge myself to do it abroad. Now, I hope to study and teach English as a second language to people who are struggling in new countries, allowing them to build accessibility towards careers and education. In countries like Canada and the United States, immigrants and refugees can struggle to learn the new language, therefore causing them adversity while searching for jobs. I would like to change that and allow everybody to have the means to support themselves and their family. I currently spend my days after school working with Japanese children, some with disabilities, and teaching them the English language. It reminds me of the days I would help my mother with her own English- a memory I know cherish deeply. I think of her every second I breathe. I see her in the decisions I make, in the challenges I face. Most of all, I see her in the strength and courage to continue to move forward.

The sweet chai was brewing on the stove top every evening when I was a child. There was never a moment where you could not smell it: the spice, the cinnamon soon to be dancing on your tongue. I always wondered how it was possible. How could my mother manage to always keep the chai warm? How was she managing to carry the weight of a family, along with her own pain, alone? My mother’s dream began when she flew across the world and came to America. She was an outspoken woman at the time, but her voice mellowed as she became nervous in light of the new world she was facing. Immediately, I became her translator as a child. At supermarkets, I would help her say the words she needed to say, even thought I knew she truly knew them deep down, but was only too shy to express them herself. These were the first signs I saw of my mother’s strength. She was conquering the earth, little by little. Her softness was what made it appear different from others. No matter how long she had been in America, she was never going to alter wearing her own traditional shilwar kameez outside of the house, roaming the streets of our small town. Through all of it, she kept smiling, even in the face of abuse. When my mother passed away in 2020, I was faced with the deep rooted question of, “what now”? What happens to my dream, when it revolved around my mother? For years, I had imagined myself coming to her rescue. Finally, I would become my own self titled superhero, grabbing every little weight on my mother’s shoulders. I was training for it, when she had passed. I was nearly ready to conquer it, as I was heading into my high school graduation semester. The truth was, not all of us get to save our immigrant parents. Some of our parents would end up sacrificing themselves so deeply, every inch of their skin beginning to peel off, that there would be nothing left of them by the time we knew how to help, and that became my own reality. It felt too late for me to give her a hand, but now, I take every inch of the strength she gave me, and I move it forward. When the dirt comes to grab my ankles, I am able to see her face and crawl up again. I am fighting for my education, to provide these dreams to other families that broke in half trying to reach it. I want to be able to do for others, what my mother did for me, and that was give me enough love and light to look forward. I dream of her still, two years later. She visits me with a cup in her hand, and tells me, “Continue, meri jaan”. The name of endearment reaches deeper this time, “meri jaan, my life”. I remember, I am her lifeline now. I will love, not only for her, not only for myself, but for every immigrant child and mother.

My mother’s passing happened the way many little details of our lives occur: quickly, before I could even begin to understand it. It was at the end of 2020, and I was preparing to graduate high school in the new year. The phone ringing was harsher that evening. I almost felt the hard vibrations tell me the news before the voice on the other line got the chance to. My mother was an immigrant woman from Pakistan. She travelled across the world, leaving her family behind, in order to achieve something greater for her kids and provide a future she did not get to see growing up. My days as a child consisted of seeing her carry every shadow into the sunlight. Her hands were made for healing, caring for not only her children, but anybody who would come knocking at our door. She taught me of resilience, how to take every treacherous moment and turn it into something worth living for. Now, I am attempting to take every step forward. Not only am I inching forward for my own dreams and education, but for the dreams my immigrant mother had. I think of sweet nights in our kitchen. Her chai brewing on the stove top, and her bright eyes glistening with another long story. She would tell me about every hope she had, every bridge she dreamed of crossing. There would never be a moment that was not full of her bright light, and now that the light is gone, I have to continue to ignite it on my own. I try to take the pain of what she did not have the means to accomplish, and I push forward. In a way, it has turned me into someone who has her fists up every chance she can. I am always ready to fight, to move forward, to find another solution. After the greatest loss I could ever go through, I realized many parts of my life would never be the same, and one of those happened to be my education. As my father is sick, and my mother is gone, I am now financially supporting myself through university by working to save money, as well as pushing myself to maintain high grades for potential scholarships. I am fighting to create my own space in education, to find my voice and become the voice others need as well. Each of us have a dream, but I am carrying the dream of not only myself, but my mother, and every woman who travelled far and wide in search for something better. I am, now, looking for that something better as well. My education is the light I have always needed, and I believe this scholarship could help me achieve it.

In grief, we can become completely isolated. For me, I spent hours feeling alone. I was convinced no one could understand what it was like to lose a mother. However, during this time, I began to read “Crying in H Mart” written by Michelle Zainer. Immediately, the words comforted me. Hovering over my body, they encompassed me with a warmth I had been searching for. Luckily, I had found someone that was able to express the pain I was attempting to put words to. Grief, in its rawest form, is very difficult to speak about. In my family, we kept our cries hushed. We were only allowed to feel our hurt when we were away from others. While facing each other, strength was all we were meant to feel. However, this memoir allowed me to express my grief in each stage it appears to me. Within anger, sadness, denial, I was able to sanction my pain within this novel and see myself as the author, living her grief as well. We became one, unified in losing our mothers, and I no longer needed to speak about it, because someone else was doing the painful part for me. Michelle Zainer became the voice I needed, the reminder that my grief could carry a thousand stories and live within me forever. In her book, Michelle spoke of the love of an asian mother and how no matter how cruel it could be, it would always result in a warm meal. She allowed me to remember the hidden words my mother had spoken to be before she passed. Within her meals, she told me she loved me. Within her meals were a thousand stories. Crying in H Mart allowed me to remember my mother and not be ashamed of my grief.

In my 18 years of being alive, I believe my greatest achievement would be simply surviving, while maintaining a warm heart. Through all the difficulties in life, I have allowed my kindness and patience to remain unhinged. I continue to believe in our world, our people, and I know that if I stay true to who I am, life will be perfectly fine. At a young age, life began to hand my family and I the wrong deck of cards. My mother was a victim of domestic abuse, and unfortunately, my siblings and I were in constant exposure to it. Later on, we also suffered the loss of my mother. It was easy to feel little in my body and assume that the world was against me. When we are handed pain, we can become a reflection of hurt and mirror what we’ve been taught. However, through it all, I chose to live with resiliency and grace. When my mother passed away in 2020, I was a high school senior and believed I wouldn’t be able to take on grief, while attempting to graduate. It was easy to become wrapped up in the negatives of life. As months went on, I luckily had the support of my siblings and friends that allowed me to believe in humanity, especially my own humanity. I was reminded of who I was as a child, a bright eyed girl with hope even within darkness. As I overcame and still struggle with traumas, I constantly accept new love and hope. Growing up in an abusive household, it is very easy to normalize the day to day cruelties that are handed to you. Learning to challenge your own “normal” and being able to see the light that is out there allowed me to see the love I am able to experience. We all face great struggles in our lives. As a community though, we always come together to share a smile or laugh. I want to amplify how much strength each of us truly have, because isn’t that where all our power comes from? Our stories and kindness allow us to continue to live again, and again. Looking around at the people around me, I’m unaware of what everybody has faced. However, I see that, along with me, they are still here and showing their strength. I always remind myself I am a fighter. We are all fighters, and that is the greatest achievement of humankind.

Our generation of students is exhausted. Balancing work, school, hobbies, and volunteering is a lot to ask of a teenager. However, young students are forced to fill their daily life up with all sorts of extracurriculars to ensure they qualify for scholarships later on and are able to attend schools. While doing so, these teenagers burn out. They become exhausted with expectations and are unable to find the time to simply be, well, teenagers. When they finally get around to university, they are too drained to even move forward. It is a “grind” culture we’ve created, emphasizing exhausting work over balance. But, isn’t balance what we need to truly succeed long term? I believe what we must do for our younger generation is provide them with ressources to manage their schedules and create spaces that allow them to balance work and school life. As we allow children with more flexibility, their work will show the efforts of a healthy mind. Many children suffer from burnout during college. As we know, many children coming from low income households are forced to carry the burdens of providing for their family, while being in school. If schools are able to create ressources full of funding and provide volunteer work within school hours, our youth will be able to find peace within their education. They will be able to get the extracurriculars necessary for universities, while also feeling supported by their peers and teachers.

From a young age, my mother would always tell me the dreams she once had about her own education. She would make lists of all the different subjects she had wanted to study, a paper full of what she could have been. Unfortunately, for many immigrant mothers, education was never an easy option. My mother, born and raised in Pakistan, was never able to afford education. Her only hope was that perhaps her children would be able to have the life she was dreamed of. To me, education would be a way to honour my ancestors, specifically my mother. As women, education can be considered a new light to our lives. Women didn’t get the chance for educations until far later in life, and when they finally did, they were privileged women. As for women of colour, education is a symbol of the fight we have conquered, which is why immigrant mothers will never stop persisting on education. For too long, I saw it as overwhelming and overbearing. I didn’t realize where this passion came from. However, I was blinded by the belief that education was for us all. I wasn’t truly listening to my mother’s stories and reasoning. As I got older and became more aware, I was able to see how privileged I was to be able to study and realized how necessary it was for me to take a hold of this light I was handed. Now, I will reach for that light, regardless of the obstacles I am handed. In 2020, I experienced the loss of my mother. The grief was overwhelming, but it ultimately led me to finally begin my own fight for my education. It was a realization of how fleeting life can be. I must take my chance to study now and grab a hold of my future as soon as I can. Education represents endless chances. It represents reinvention and giving back. It represents what we finally can have, and what others, I hope, will have one day too.

In December 2020, my beautiful mother passed away suddenly. I was only 17 at the time and believing I had more time with her, I had taken for granted our precious moments. It was a single moment that altered how I saw life completely, and I realized how fleeting each moment is. Before that, I had perceived life as something that would always be there for me when I was ready. I could go to university, when I was ready. I could finally learn how to play the drums, when I was ready. However, the world does not necessarily wait for us. We must seize the moments we are given, hold onto each chance we can. My mother has millions of aspirations she would share with me. My family grew up with very little, and the best way to survive was to always dream. We would dream of the day we could go to Turkey together and watch the hot air balloons for the first time. At night, she would tell me about all the places she wanted to see and experiences she dreamed of having. Unfortunately, I watched how life does not always award patience. As I was grieving my mother my senior year of high school, I lost pieces of hope for my future. I began to dive into a deep depression, unable to see the path in front of me. Without the light my mother granted, I had no idea where to go or what to do. However, these lost moments were necessary for me to realize the joy that was still left in life. As pain would take over me, I had the love of the people around me to overtake the hurt. My community of people uplifted me. At first, they showed up in little ways. My best friend would come over and help me clean. My favourite teacher would arrive with containers full of food. There was love completely surrounding me, and as I was able to notice it more, I was also able to welcome the process of healing. Suddenly, I realized that grief and love coexisted. If I were to ignore the love that was around me, I would be allowing love to be a fleeting source. Instead, I realized I needed to let in all the good I possibly could. I needed to be able to accept goodness, joy and friendship. I needed to allow myself to continue to live. In grief, I had to remember what my mother would want. If she wasn’t able to truly live her life to the end, I wanted to live enough for the two of us. Now, as she watches from above, she will see a fighter. She will see her daughter as someone who always lives and loves wholeheartedly. Although the loss of a parent is not an experience I want anybody to have, I allowed the pain to heal me. I was able to learn how to live again, and because of that, I will always be able to take the largest leaps into the world.

Growing up with very little, I realized the lack of exposure we may have to ressources in life that could help us face our mental health struggles. Not being able to play a sport, or go to therapy, limited me to my room and caused my depression to only spiral even more. Looking back now, I believe that if my school had more awareness for what their children were facing, they would be able to provide outlets for them to speak and face their challenges. Firstly, I believe having free after school programs and counselling within the school is a big step towards showing children that mental health is something we can all face as a community. When struggling with depression, anxiety, or any mental illness, we all spiral into thoughts of assuming we are all alone in our battles. However, if schools build systems that allow that loneliness to shrink, children will grow trust in the people around them. This trust will allow us to hear when they are hurting and help them before it is too late. In my own situation, I learned community was what helped me truly battle with mental health. In high school, I joined a Japanese language club and being able to have the free outlet to learn a new skill was a perfect way to realize I was deserving of the little joys in life. All I needed was a reminder that perhaps there were people around me that cared, perhaps the school did provide something for us instead of limit us. As I went through high school, we got counsellors to help each grade group. As soon as I realized I had that option, I was able to lean towards help a little more. It allowed me to not feel limited.

Do you ever look around at the world and realize you’re just freaking awesome? It’s not just an awareness for your own self worth, but rather than awareness that you are simply better. Well, that is exactly why I am the perfect person to pursue education. Who else if not me? Someone with a higher GPA or more volunteer work? Absolutely not! As I pursue my dream of becoming a lawyer, I know that my arguing skills will allow me to prosper. Finally! A space for me to be able to tell someone off. Oh, sorry, I mean, the perfect time to right a wrong. I believe I will be made for the court room, and it’s aggressive nature. My past as an aggressive running child has trained me for this moment. You see, one time, when I was younger, I tripped on a staircase. It caused me extreme difficulties afterwards, with a scab right on the side of my knee that of course everybody would notice as a weakness. I couldn’t have that though, so I picked it and covered it with a bandage. We never let big moments control us. I never let pain control me, which is why I would be perfect for this scholarship.

The beauty of the world comes from our diverse cultures. I am proud of my family’s past as immigrants, and I am also proud of where I am now, studying at an American University based in Tokyo. My entire life, I have loved different cultures and learning how unique each of us really are. My passion for culture, and immigration, allowed me to decide to become an immigration lawyer and continue to keep our nation beautifully diverse. I want to provide opportunities to others, the way my parents immigration provided for me. Specifically, I want to give people of colour the chances that they deserve and empower their voices! Currently, I am political science student. I am hoping to maintain a high GPA, graduate early, and quickly pursue my dream of becoming a lawyer. Although I am not in a rush to pursue my career, I have chosen to fast track my schooling, so I can pursue my dream even sooner. I believe in that field, I’ll be able to meet people of all sorts of backgrounds and allow them to express themselves, while coming to a new country for potentially new chances. For me, becoming an immigration lawyer will allow me to honour my parents and their sacrifice, while also honouring the struggles all immigrants go through. I am proud to be an immigrant, and hope others will be proud too!

When I was a preteen, I came across the quote, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in”. Immediately, when I read the words, I began to sob. Growing up, I struggled with many obstacles in my household. Faced with the challenges of growing up as a first generation immigrant, I never truly felt whole. It was as if parts of me were missing, stuck in Pakistan, and all the children in my classroom could tell I was not a 100% like them. However, when I would go to Pakistani cultural events, the children would make fun of me for not having perfect Urdu. I was too much for one side, too little for the other. These situations led me to believe there was something wrong with me. Would I ever truly feel whole? However, the idea of wholeness is an abstract concept itself. As humans, we all struggle in certain ways. We all have “little holes”, insecurities and differences. This quote specifically spoke to me, as it allowed me to see the cracks of my being as windows that allowed the sun to shine it. As soon as I read it, it was as if someone else knew exactly what I needed to hear. Someone else experienced the pain of not ever feeling complete, which allowed me to realize none of us ever truly need to be complete. We glow with our differences. As we shine on, what sets us apart from others is what makes us the beautiful individuals we are.

When I was 14 years old, my older sister attempted to take her life. I didn’t understand mental health enough at the time, and I was struggling to understand what was going on in her head. Did she not love me? Why wouldn’t she tell us how she felt? I realized the stigma around mental health allowed me to believe that we would always be able to see a hurt person when they needed us the most. However, the realization that we don’t always know what others face helped me reshape myself and my views surrounded mental health. Through the joy of my sister surviving, I realized that taking care of yourself in all aspects of life was more important than simply getting good grades or feeling fulfilled in friendships. As my sister did well in school, I realized she hid her pain within her accomplishments. She was struggling to appear as the perfect model individual and within that, she was losing her joy for all that she did within school and life. As I saw her struggle, and eventually heal, I began to make decisions to change my life for the better too. I wanted to focus on myself as more than simply a student, as more than another working individual in society. I was a person, a sister, a daughter, a best friend, and I could be anybody I wanted to be. There was pride in being able to be an active person in other’s lives, and suddenly, as I learned to be more present for myself, I also learned how to be more actively present for others. I began to allow myself to pick up new hobbies, which reflected in the way I felt creative and happy each day. Mental health shows up in many ways. In some people, it is visible. In others, it hides beneath the surface of what we see. This unpredictability allows us to have decisions in how we approach others. Now, whenever I look at someone, I always try to remember that what I see is not all there is. There is so much a single person can offer to a world, and there are so many stories to each person we meet. If we’re able to, I believe we must be kind in order to survive this world. For all we know, a simple smile could save someone.

When I was younger, I was exposed to an abusive household. During that time, it felt like walls would always close in on me. There was never a silence, never any peace. It was difficult for me to find a solace in all the chaos within my home, and that was when I found the light outside. It began with little walks and bike rides, but it quickly turned into spending every spare second I had outdoors. I would pick raspberries in bushes, read beneath large trees. I noticed that when the panic began, I could take a deep breath of fresh air, and for a moment, I would find a sense of relief. When I got to middle school, one of my best friends took me on a hike with her and her family. I climbed to the top of a mountain, reached the summit and was able to look ahead at a whole landscape of beautiful views. It allowed me to take my difficulties and place them in a box. I realized how wide the world was and how the beauty always existed, even as we were hurting. It almost felt like a promise from nature that it would always be there for me, ready to shine the light when I needed it. Now, when the world becomes too hard, I stand outside and let the air take me away from my worries. I remember that the trees will always stand tall. The air will always continue to blow in my hair. I will always be protected by the stability of our Earth, and as long as I choose to care for it, I know it will always care for me. I love nature, because it was there for me when others weren’t.

In 2020, my mother passed away suddenly. She was the light of my life, always guiding me through difficulties and day to day tasks. Suddenly, I was faced with so many questions I didn’t know how to answer. What will I do next? Can I survive without her? I was in my senior year of high school and was on the verge of believing I wouldn’t want to finish the school year, but remembering her is what saved me. It was February 2021 when I began to have dreams of her. She would visit me and sit at the end of my bed. In her soft voice, she would ask how I had been, and if I had eaten enough. They were the usual questions a mother would ask, but in one dream, she asked me if I cared for myself enough. I didn’t know how to form a response. At the time, I had stopped focusing on school and had made a home in my bedroom. She began to cry without my answer, and I knew that I was allowing my grief to control my life. My mother had constantly sacrificed her world for me. Every chance she got, she paved way for me to be able to go to school and have a better future. Now, I was realizing that I needed to honour her memory. My memories of her are all full of light, and being able to use them to shine my path ahead is what I know will allow me to preserve through. I channel my grief into hope and know that my love for my mother will allow me to conquer anything.

Growing up in a South Asian household, generosity meant constantly being aware of others. My mother was someone who would not only make dinner for the family, but many times, she would make enough for our neighbours too. Around 7pm, I’d put on my shoes, grab the big trays, and deliver them to families who lived on our street. She taught me of awareness. We never know what someone is going through, so all we can do is lend a hand in every way possible. Now, I am always attempting to reach my own hand out too. Since I am not the best cook, I took my mother’s advice and lend my hand out in other ways. I give others a shoulder to cry on, attempt to listen to the best of my ability, and always offer a smile to strangers out on the street. There are days in my own life where I experience the burden of feeling alone, but as I go outside, a stranger’s smile can fix the grey cloud above me. Small talk, soft smiles, and random compliments allow us to show that generosity begins at our hearts, not in what we have in materials. Generosity is measured by the willingness to sacrifice, the ability to welcome and accept others. My family did not have a lot growing up, but we never let that stop us from giving. On Sundays, my mother would invite our neighbours to come have tea at the house. She would set the table, heal their hearts through conversation and ask them if they needed any help cleaning. Generosity begins in community. I will never forget how big a small gesture can go.

When I was younger, I didn’t always appreciate my cultural background. My mother was always attempting to keep our Pakistani culture alive. We only ate traditional food, spoke Urdu at home, and made sure to keep the holidays full of family love. I would always hear stories of how lucky I was to be raised in a country full of chances, but I was too young to truly realize all of my good fortune. Now, after losing my mother, I realize how many opportunities I truly was given. My parents always did everything they could to ensure I was able to go to school. Education, for me, was always an option. It was always a dream I could reach for, but it is not always attainable for everybody. For my own mother, she always dreamed of being able to go to university, practice her English and have her own career. Due to her circumstances, she instead had to provide for her family at home and spend her spare time working part time as a seamstress. She was unable to live her dream, but she allowed us the path to live our own. Knowing the sacrifices my mother made, I have decided to pursue my dreams of becoming an immigration lawyer. I believe in doing so, that I will be able to provide people the chances they may not be able to get in their own homes, while also bringing their rich cultures into North American life. I want to fight for people to stay in their new homes, to find a place to feel safe. My focus in my career will be giving voices back to those who feel they have lost them. It is easy to feel our identities be challenged, while we search for a better life, but I want to be able to allow people to connect with their old cultures and new cultures, igniting unity. One day, I want to be able to help those who faced similar struggles to my own family. I want to be able to give kids chances, provide homes to families. I want to give others what my mother gave to me: a life full of opportunities.

When I was a child, my dad would tell me all about his travels in Japan. It was the first place he ever travelled to and lived in for over two years. He learned the Japanese language, culture, and was exposed to so many opportunities compared to the ones he saw in his home, Pakistan. His love for travel, specifically his travels to Japan, instantly grew into my own heart. However, I never truly thought about those dreams until the beginning of 2021. At the end of 2020, I lost my mother suddenly. When I think of holding myself back, I imagine her. I imagine how, for so long, she wanted to experience more and more. She had spoken of travelling, of going to Turkey and riding on a hot air balloon. She would share her dreams with me, but unfortunately, she never got to live any of them. Now, I will live all of mine to honour what she missed out on. I have taken the chance to allow myself to see my dreams as a reality. This past year, I took the leap of moving across the world to Japan. At 18 years old, it is intimidating being away from home and going to an American university in a foreign country. However, it has always been a dream of mine to be exposed to different cultures. I want to be able to live and see it all. My bucket list is long and always expanding. I write down places I want to see, languages I’d love to learn. I know, in my heart, that I will always be reaching out for this life and finding something new to experience.

My senior year of university, I lost my mother suddenly. It was just another day. I had been studying for a math exam when I had gotten the call. Days before, she had kissed my head and headed off. She had gone to Pakistan to visit her family when a heart attack struck her. It was unexpected, and I had no idea how I was meant to continue the next few months of school and graduate without her. Suddenly, I felt frozen. My mother was the light of our family, the string that held us together. Through the grief, I fought demons that asked me tough questions. How will you allow her legacy to live on? What does it mean to live without the one who brought you life? It was the first time I would ever be without her, but it would also be the first time I began to see clarity. As a first generation immigrant, my mother was always trying to keep her culture alive. She attempted to always remind us of our roots, bringing her language and food into every room she would walk into. For too long, I would under-appreciate it. I was nervous to be the brown girl bringing daal for lunch. I would shy away when she would speak to me in Urdu, and ultimately, it led to me feeling detached from my own identity. However, after my mother’s loss, I realized it was never too late to relearn what I had pushed away. My mother was a strong woman, never hiding where she came from or the pieces that completed her puzzle. Being able to allow her to live on meant illuminating the light she gave me and sharing my own roots. Constantly, I search up different details about our culture. What is the best way to do mehndi? What is the urdu translation for “precious”? I am passionate about allowing others to appreciate where they come from as well. I believe it allows for grief to hold a special place in our heart and brings us ease in knowing that we are keeping the stories of our ancestors alive. Now, I am hoping to pursue law and have a focus in immigration. I want to be able to see different cultures and talk to people about where they came from. Growing up with the richness of my mother’s culture, I realize how beautiful it is to share the glory of the world. I’m passionate about allowing people to immigrant to a new country, share their culture, and get the opportunities they deserve. Through loss, I asked myself: How will I keep my mother alive? The truth is, all I have to do is keep her culture alive and allow others the chance to do the same. May we all celebrate the roots that got us to where we are. May we all remember what our mothers taught us.

It was a Tuesday evening when I found out my mother had passed away. Instantly, I asked myself, “What was the last thing you had said to her? When did you hug her last?”. When I realized how close loss could be, I began to take every breath in deeper. I began to hold the rest of my family so closely. As we grow older, it can be easy to get lost in our privileges. We become too busy, too preoccupied on working or our careers that we forget to take our parents on coffee dates or watch the sunrise with our childhood friends. When I experienced loss though, I was hit with all those realizations immediately. I wanted to go back in time, but instead of focusing on what I wasn’t able to do, I decided to channel my love and grief into what I could do. My sister and I began to go on daily walks in 2021. It was a month after my mother has passed. For the first time, I felt like I was getting to know her. 17 years old, and I’m finally hearing all the stories my older sister has been hiding away from me. Those walks were the first step in me allowing myself to take in every moment, every step. Randomly, I would stop and look around. I would try to point out one detail that I would have missed if I had just kept going, and I noticed that there was always something beautiful to stop for. Now, I say my prayers before I head out the door. I have an angel that protects me, so I know that all that is coming is meant for me and I will always be grateful for that.

My father was always a stern man. When we were younger, he was never the kind of father who would take you to the playground or read you a bed time story. Instead, he would remind you to make sure you were excelling in school. For a long time, it hurt me the lack of love he showed. However, I simply had yet to learn his story. My father grew up with a lot of pain. He was raised in Pakistan, where poverty was always rising and people were always praying for more. At a young age, he lost his own dad and became “the man” of his house, which meant he was carrying for two younger siblings and his mother. Later in life, he would also lose his mother and his younger brother. He faced loss after loss, but he never mentioned his losses until I had already thought I knew him too well. However, hearing my father’s stories switched a light in me. I was a young child blinded by what my father couldn’t give me, that I never noticed what he was giving me and that was a lot more than he ever had. Over time, I began to show him more love. I would hug him, even when he wasn’t ready to return it. I began to see him slowly glow. He had never been given love. He was always too busy providing, but now, he was able to see what he was missing out on. Showing him my empathy for his hurt allowed him to open his arms to love. Now, I think my dad might be the most loving person I know. Maybe that is what our empathy can do: push down the barriers people hold up.

When I leave my house in the morning, there is always a smile waiting for me. I know that may not seem like a lot to someone, but for me, the gentleness of a strangers smile brings light back into my life. I spend a lot of time alone. As an introvert, I usually love hiding away in my little cave. However, I notice loneliness still visits me. It’s easy to feel lonely in a world so crowded. On days like that, I try to get outside. I put on my favourite outfit, place my headphones in, and I head out. That’s when I always find the hope again. First, it starts in the way the mail male smiles at me. It’s a warm grin, the kind that comes naturally as he walks door to door. Then, it is in the way the girl at the mall compliments my hair. She says it as if we have been friends forever, as if she’s aware that I need the compliment right now. The world outside my room can be so vibrant, so welcoming. I find there is an eagerness to connect. All we truly want is for someone to see us, for even a brief moment. Humans, by nature, bring purity to the world. In our natural form, we love one another. We hold and protect one another. The way we melt into each other when we are all out in public, at a concert and we all, for a moment, are singing, that is peace for me. Through all the darkness, someone is always singing. Couples are always hugging. Someone is always there to tell you they love your dress. My hope simply rests in knowing that every day, there will always be at least one single person that waves hello at you. It is so simple, but it is an acknowledgment. Don’t we all want that though? A reminder that we are never alone? You are never alone, though, not really. We never have been alone. There has always been a fight that we have together. There is always someone on our side, and it brings me hope. In 10 years, if at least one person greets me on my daily walk, it will be enough for me.

When I was little, I would cry when I would get too sick to go to school. My parents thought it was funny how upset I was. Weren’t most kids begging to stay at home? Certain kids, I believe, find solace in their education, just like I did. For me, school was an escape from my home life. It was a hope for something better, something I could work towards if I tried my best. My parents didn’t have a lot. We were first generation immigrants and attempting to make our way. The most they could provide us was hope and that hope began with our education. The first time I noticed myself falling in love with my education was when my school hosted a scholastic book event. They were these extravagant little fairs, filled with new books and pretty bookmarks. I loved being able to smell the fresh covers, dive my nose into a new story, and turn into a magical creature. Reading became a safe place for me, as I would hide away in the school library every chance I got. After that day, I was always wanting to learn and explore more. What else could I find behind the cover of a book? What else could my brain take in. When I realized knowledge was endless, I also accepted my fate of wanting to learn all that I possibly could. I fell in love with all the hope and eagerness it gave me. Was there something better out there for me? My education and reading taught me that of course there was. There was always so much more. To me, education was hope. It was desire. It was a longing for more, more, and more. Now, as a young adult, I am constantly allowing myself to explore the wonders of the universe through my education. It provides an outlet for me to release joy, to accept all that is out there and reach for those dreams. For as long as I am here, I think I’ll always hope to grasp another piece of the puzzle of this world. I’ll always try to read another story. I will always try to fight for the future where education can be for all of us, especially the kids who lacked the hope we all deserve to have.

The most important realization I have had is that sometimes, the best form of help we can have to the world is helping ourselves first. When I first began getting panic attacks, I assumed I was dying. 12 year old me, with her long pigtails, was to fall right there. However, I quickly realized I was becoming a product of my surroundings. The stress of school, the hurt of my parents reflected onto me, and the expectation to be the best were closing in. Worst of all, I was allowing all of them take over. For too long, I had no idea what approach to take to fix these issues, but by the time I was 16, I was beginning to see people promote “self-care”. Prideful, young me assumed that it was just another simple trend. However, I allowed myself to experiment with it. It became a weekly, Sunday night habit. I would put on my pink Hello Kitty headband, put on a face mask, and watch my favourite romantic comedies. For once, I wasn’t thinking about school work or the future. I was thinking about what boy in the movie the protagonist would choose and what flavour of chips I would eat to unwind. It became a habit for me to watch a movie, focus on the silly world of romantic comedies, and understand that being young could be hard, but it could also be joyous. For me, self care changes as I change. By 17, I was taking care of myself by going for daily walks. By 18, I was learning to love books for the first time. All I can do is follow my own lead. As I struggle with mental health, I allow myself release through the beauty of this world. Usually, that beauty starts within.

For years, I imagined the American Dream as a white picket fence in front of a grand house. It was walking my dog every morning, being able to go on vacation often, and maintaining a 9-5 job. Although all of those details sound amazing, my focus has shifted. Now, I imagine it as keeping my own culture alive and paying the immigrant dream forward. My family came to Canada in 2003. It was a decision that allowed them to feel secure in their children’s future. It was a bright light and a promise for a better life. However, we all became victim of the cruelties that can come from attempting to attain the American Dream. Too often, the American Dream overworks immigrants. It overworks our fathers, driving their taxis for 12 hours to be able to feed their families. It overworks our mothers, working while also attempting to make dinner and do laundry every night for her kids. Seeing my parents exhaust themselves their entire lives to get me into school allowed me to become the motivated individual I am. When I see myself slipping away from my dreams, I remember their exhausted faces. Even when they were too tired, they would smile. With their hides held high, they would say a prayer and remain hopeful for our future. Applying for college, I realized I needed to ask myself what I saw in my own future. How could I ensure I used my opportunities to their full advantage? The answer, for me, was quite easy. I wanted to be able to provide not only for my family, but also for all those who experienced the same conflicts my family did. I wanted to continue the immigrant dream, alongside the American Dream. The immigrant dream is one that continued to hold hope even when when their is nothing left to believe in. It means giving back what my parents provided me and paying it forward to those who want to make it in America as well, the way all of us immigrants desire. I want to value our pasts and continue to dream of our futures. In doing so, I decided the perfect way to do that was to choose a career that would allow me to amplify my love for the hard work of an immigrant. In college, I have decided to pursue a degree in political science. After, I hope to pursue law. Specifically, I want to pursue immigration law and allow for more people to be able to come to North America and get the opportunities we all deserve. Seeing how important it was for my parents to raise their kids in a better place motivates me to want the same for others. My opportunities will become someone else’s one days, another immigrant child fighting for their parents future. I am proud to be an immigrant, and I hope one day I hope the “Immigrant Dream” is one everyone will respect too.

When I was much younger, I remember crying to the Spongebob movie. Silly, I know, but It was right at the part where Patrick and Spongebob were bonding over their friendship, in light of them possibly dying. It’s one of the first memories I have of my sensitivity, a symbol of the emotions that were yet to come. I always knew that I was a sensitive child. It was obvious in the way I would carry myself, hiding away and always ready to tear up at the sight of a bug being stepped on or a homeless man hungry for a even a crumb. The world was too loud for my mind. I was too hyper aware of every little thing. For a long time, it was a quality I attempted to crush down. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be the woman who walked into a room with her chin held high, her shoulders ready to carry the world. I didn’t realize that my sensitivity and my courage could coexist. As I got older though, I realized it was a way to become a listener and a lover. As I was able to be aware of my emotions, I was also able to be aware of others. It allowed me the ability to connect, and always see the world from the perspective of others. When I was in a fight with a friend, I was able to see where their own hurt was coming from. When I noticed myself judging someone, I would think about what they’re truly going through. Now, I see my sensitivity and compassion as a way to focus on the light of the world. I can be in tune with my emotions and know what and why I am feeling them. Being able to navigate the world with my emotions allows everything to amplify, feeling every detail the world has to offer. The qualities we have as individuals truly allows us to live our lives fully. Now, I am able to recognize I am living my life in a complete way, embracing all that I am.

In 2020, I was beginning my senior year of high school when my mother passed away. Suddenly, I felt my eagerness for college fade away. Shadowed with grief, I couldn’t stop asking myself wallowing questions. Will I be able to do this without her? What is a daughter without her mother? What is a future without the one who brought you tour beginning? My mother was a gentle woman. Born in a small Pakistani village, she understood that Canada would have the big opportunities her kids needed. Although she was never given the lucky deck of cards, she was always smiling. Her hijab on her head and her praying hands up, hoping to God that she would give her kids the life she didn’t get to have. However, there were too many times where grief held its force on me. For a long time, I believed I couldn’t have hope if she wasn’t whispering it to me. One night, I dreamed she was sitting in my room on the end of the bed. Stroking my hair, she said “you know this is not what I want for you” as if she had been watching me throw away my chances. I thought about this dream often after that night. If she is watching me from above, I knew I had to show her what her life wad worth. Her dreams would live on in me. When I remember her hopes, I see a reflection of who I can become and all that I am capable of. I’m determined to make her journey to Canada a journey well worth it. I am grateful for the grief, and I am grateful for the time I had with the one who taught me about dreams.

Sometimes, we love something so much we want to introduce it to every aspect of our life, including our working world. For me, that isn’t the case. When people ask me why I don’t want to be a writer, it’s a simple answer. I love it too much to ever let anyone touch it, let the world know it. When I first began to write, it was a release for everything I felt. A bad day? I would grab a pencil and scribble away. Hours on end of my wrists cramping and mind exploring. Slowly, it became a part of me, like breathing was. I was adding it to every inch of my day, allowing it to be a light I could always count on. It was as if I had always been doing it, like I was born with a hand meant to write. As I pursue school, I realize more and more how important it is for me to continue hobbies within the chaos of the real world. Being able to separate the two allows me to bring alive different versions of myself: explore the creative me and the Type A me. So, why will I never pursue writing professionally? When we love something so much that it allows us to see the light, we can’t risk what life is without it. I do it because I love it, not because I want everybody else to know I love it. It is my simple peace, and I do not think we can be anything without what we truly love.

Will I ever stop writing? I ask myself that question sometimes, wondering if I’ll lose the joy for what I do. As I grow older, my time is split between too many expectations. There is always somewhere to be, an errand to run or work to tackle. At first, I forgot how to make time for what I love to do. However, through it all, I realized the only way to keep myself alive is to keep my love for writing alive. Our passions are two way streets. When we feed into what we love, it can feed into us too. I notice when I have a long day, exhausted by my daily tasks, I need a moment to sit with a pen in hand. As the ink releases on the paper, so do my worries for a moment. I can create a magical world, an alternative reality, to hide away in. It allows me to remain playful and brings out the child we all feel fading away as we grow older. So often, we lose what we love as children, but if we allow ourselves the time and the privilege, to bring those joys back to our lives, I don’t think we will ever be “too old” for anything. I allow myself to take those minutes and hours to be a child, full of wild imagination and too many ideas. I allow myself to be free, writing away. So, I ask, Will I ever stop breathing? If it’s in my own control, I would refuse to, just like how I would never stop writing.