"If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion." – The Dalai Lama

Maybe compassion isn’t about grand gestures. Maybe it’s not about saving the world or fixing everything that’s broken.

Maybe it’s about the moments we choose to see someone instead of looking away.

(Photo by Zac Durant on Unsplash)

For everything that divides us, there are things that pull us back together.

The way a starry night stops us in our tracks, the Milky Way spilling across the sky. The way a song can transport us back in time. The way a shared meal can turn strangers into family.

For all our differences, maybe we’ve had common ground all along.

(Photo by Benjamin Voros on Unsplash)

Most of the time, the world doesn’t fall apart in a single moment.

It happens slowly. Quietly.

Not because people fought for the wrong thing—but because too many people didn’t fight for anything at all.

(Photo by Austin Pacheco on Unsplash)

Every immigrant story is, in some way, a story of loss.

We lost the voices that once called our names from another room.
The hands that used to straighten our collars before we left the house.
The scent of home-cooked meals we’ll never taste quite the same way again.

Because immigrants don’t just carry dreams.

We carry ghosts. We carry goodbyes we never got to say.

(Photo by Veit Hammer on Unsplash)

Languages have always borrowed from each other—words traveling across borders, changing shape, becoming something new.

But immigrants don’t just borrow words.

We borrow confidence, humor, traditions.
We borrow rhythms—of speech, of movement, of how to fit in.

And little by little, what started as borrowed becomes something else.

(Photo by Glen Carrie on Unsplash)

Some people move through the world without ever having to explain themselves.

They don’t have to wonder if using their full name on an application will affect their chances.
They don’t have to Google which neighborhoods are more welcoming to outsiders before moving.
They don’t have to worry if their passport will cause extra screening at the airport.

Because no one has ever made them question their belonging.

(Photo by Possessed Photography on Unsplash)

Some people move to another country and call themselves expats.
Others move and are called immigrants.

Some are welcomed, celebrated, seen as adding value.
Others are questioned, scrutinized, expected to prove they deserve to stay.

The same action—packing up, leaving home, starting over—yet the world labels some as immigrants and others as something else.

(Photo by Roi Dimor on Unsplash)

The person I am in English is not the same as the person I am in my first language.

One version is sharper, quicker. The other is softer, built in a language where certain words carry more weight.

Sometimes, it feels like I am one person in pieces.

But maybe I am not less whole because I exist in fragments.

(Photo by 浮萍 闪电 on Unsplash)

Life as an immigrant isn’t just about challenges—it’s also about the unexpected moments that make you stop and smile. A familiar word overheard in a crowd. A long-lost childhood snack hidden on a store shelf. A small act of recognition in a place that once felt foreign.

Some of these moments are bittersweet, reminders of what’s changed. Others mark how far you’ve come. But each one is a quiet, personal discovery—proof that even in a new world, pieces of your old one still find their way back to you.

(Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash)

At first, we translated everything.

Menus, conversations, jokes.
Emotions, thoughts, even the way we reacted to things.

We wanted people to understand us.
We wanted to fit.

But over time, some of us stopped.

Because maybe not everything about us needs to be explained.

(Photo by Rubaitul Azad on Unsplash)

We were raised to believe in simple morals: Be kind. Be fair. Do the right thing.

But what happens when those values clash with self-interest?

What happens when family values stop at our own families?
When we celebrate our immigrant ancestors but reject today’s newcomers?
When we defend freedom—but only for people who think like us?

(Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash)

Some people can afford to ignore politics. They can roll their eyes at the news, shrug off an election, and say, “It doesn’t really affect me.”

But for immigrants, politics isn’t just a debate—it’s survival.

A law can decide whether we stay. A policy can determine if our families reunite. A shift in rhetoric can turn neighbors into enemies.

Because when you don’t have the privilege of looking away—

You learn to pay attention.

(Photo by Dan Dumitriu on Unsplash)

There was a time when “Love is love” was everywhere. It felt like a turning point—like we had finally agreed on something that couldn’t be debated.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Before the backlash. Before the rights we fought for became rights we had to defend again. Before people started making exceptions.

So the question isn’t just “Do you remember when ‘Love is love’ meant something?”

It’s What happened?

(Photo by Monika Kozub on Unsplash)

No one talks about the guilt.

The guilt of leaving. The guilt of staying. The guilt of thriving. The guilt of struggling.

If you succeed, you feel like you’ve left others behind. If you struggle, you feel like you’ve wasted the sacrifices that got you here. And no matter where you are, a part of you wonders—

Will I ever do enough to make up for it?

(Photo by Callum Skelton on Unsplash)

Some say, “Go back to where you came from.”

But what if you’ve lived here longer than the country you were born in? What if this is where you built your family, your future? What if leaving isn’t an option—because there’s nowhere else to go?

Who really gets to claim America?

Maybe it belongs to the people who never stop fighting to make it better.

(Photo by Marek Studzinski on Unsplash)

We love the immigrant success stories—the ones about resilience, hard work, and dreams fulfilled. But what about the stories that don’t fit that mold?

The immigrant who never “made it” but kept going anyway.
The one who worked multiple jobs but still couldn’t bring their family over.
The one who wanted to go back home but couldn’t—because too much had changed, or too much had been lost.

Not every immigrant journey ends in triumph. But if we only listen to the stories that inspire us—

We miss the ones that tell us the truth.

(Photo by Denise Jans on Unsplash)

For generations, the American Dream was a promise.

Work hard, and you’ll make it.
Sacrifice, and it will pay off.
Come here with nothing, and you can build a future.

But what happens when the dream starts slipping out of reach—not just for newcomers, but for those who have been here all along?

Does the American Dream still exist?

(Photo by Reba Spike on Unsplash)

For some, a name is just a name.

For others, it’s a test.

Will they say it right?
Will they hesitate?
Will they ask, “Do you have a nickname?” before even trying?

But it’s not just one-sided. Immigrants don’t just struggle with how others say their names—they also struggle with saying American names.

Because let’s be honest—not everyone is a John or a Mary, a Smith or a Johnson.

(Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash)

No one tells you how long it takes for a new place to feel like home.

Maybe it’s when you stop checking Google Maps before leaving the house.
Maybe it’s the first time a stranger asks you for directions—and you actually know the answer.

And when you think about leaving, something tugs at you—because even if this place doesn’t hold your past, it has quietly claimed your present.

(Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash)

Maybe karma isn’t about punishment or reward.

Maybe it’s just the sum of the things we put into the world.

A policy written today shapes a child’s future decades from now.
A casual joke plants a seed of prejudice in someone’s mind.
A kindness forgotten by one person is passed down by another.

Karma isn’t just about what happens to us.

It’s about what happens because of us.

(Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash)