One of the things I want to share this year is immigrant stories—the stories of those humans who left their homes miles and miles away for a new start, to build a dream or to give their kids a chance at better. The ones who came with suitcases and took the biggest risks of their lives – leaving behind the comforting cushion of familiar things for the unknown. Those who came with their fears, and their certificates, and their hopes for places that promised better than where they came from, and years and years of work experience but whose experience has been minimized because they dared to have been born, lived in, and shaped by some foreign place before they touched ground in a new land.

From London, UK, to Toronto, Canada, to Sydney, Australia, the questions are the same. Where do we begin? What should we know? Where can we find answers? What doors should we knock on? How thick should our resilience be? How often should we expect it to be beaten on? How many disappointments should we prepare for? When do we breathe? How do we find work that matches our skills and experience without taking away bits of our education? How many certifications do we need to prove that we have what it takes to do the job well? Without compromising personality, values or authenticity? Where do we find community? When we do, what can we expect? Or are those just places where we get to say “So it’s not just me?” and find strength in shared experiences? How do we belong in a place where the price of admission is listening to things that you’ve learnt to share only with those you call friends and not simply everyone you meet?

Recently, I got into a long conversation with a friend, who had the same thoughts and questions that I did. Questions and feelings that still creep in in moments when I dare lift the cloak on my thoughts. Even though we moved to different continents, he also couldn’t relate to some of the topics being discussed at lunch or in the coffee room, much as he tried. We didn’t grow up with the luxury – privilege even – of simply picking up a passport and flying halfway across our home country and continent for self-discovery. Or simply for a life break – if you can survive the humiliation of visa officers at visa interviews or even afford the flight fares. The biggest barrier to entry for most immigrants in our newfound homes is not the degrees we have in abundance, or the intelligence that we packed along with our bags. The biggest entry challenges are the nuances that are wrapped in cultural integration. Unlearning decades of one culture – and quickly too – so you can be accepted in a new culture. Neither belonging here nor there – in that ever-freezing space in time where you’re never quite there, yet never quite here. Chipping away and adding new bits until you start to feel no longer one-of-yourself. But trying still!

This new year is especially another time when I yearn to sit in that fast-growing gap. Home is no longer one place but numerous places where I become different people because now I carry with me other people and places. So I’m neither one of you nor one of them. But one of the in-betweens. Maybe this is one of those many immigrant stories – the stories of those whose hearts have been broken too hard, they don’t know if what they possess is strength or if they’re simply tired. Maybe this is just another story joining the thousands of floating stories, of people who came and saw and can’t tell if they conquered, because home became many places and many places have become them.