The Day I Left What Was Familiar.

There are times in life that are so etched in your brain that you can’t help but remember them, no matter how much time passes. One of those events happened the day I left home. It was the quiet cracking of something familiar inside me, not only a physical leave. Uganda and Rwanda, countries where I was familiar with the customs, language, and rhythm of life, formed my identity. At the verge of all I knew, I found myself prepared to step into a world that felt simultaneously wonderful and puzzling.

I remember the mix of sensations as though it were yesterday: the fear that settled on my ribs, anticipation fluttering in my heart, and saying farewell to places and people I loved gives rise to a powerful pain. Their laughter masked tears that their relatives didn’t want me to see. Friends hung on a little longer as if their embraces somehow could transfer bravery. And me? I pretended to be more powerful than I really was and put on a brave façade.

Though occasionally shown as a grand trip, migration is actually very different in several ways. Still, little attention is paid to the quiet grief that comes with parting. I was uprooting my physical being as well as my sense of belonging. Sure that the unknown would give me fresh room to grow, I left the territory that had sculpted me.

Through the window, I watched the familiar scenery diminish below me as the aircraft lifted. As I felt the weight in my chest and heard the whisper, a great idea occurred to me: “You’re not merely leaving a location; you’re abandoning a variant of yourself behind. At the time, I had no idea how correct that was. On that day, one in which I had to rebuild aspects of both my identity and my life, a new chapter in my life began.