My American Dream

I grew up admiring everything American.

The TV shows, the movies—the way teenagers in high school hallways seemed to move through the world with effortless confidence. The actors and actresses whose names I memorized, whose faces grinned at me from magazine covers. The singers and bands whose lyrics I barely understood but copied down word for word, dictionary in hand, guessing at meanings that slipped through translation.

I imagined life in the houses with the white picket fences, where American moms baked chocolate chip cookies and apple pies and sent their kids running down the street to share with the neighbors. I listened to speeches by American presidents and leaders, their words so powerful they were translated into every language in the world. I watched the first man on the moon take a step that didn’t just belong to America, but to all of us who looked up at the sky and believed in something bigger.

America wasn’t just a country. It was the place that told us how to dream.

It was where you could be yourself. Where you could speak your mind. Where you could dress any way you liked.

And in the place I came from—though we were free, though we had rights—those things were not encouraged. Not by law, but by culture. Women were expected to act a certain way, speak a certain way, live a certain way. And so, as a teenager, while others hung up movie star posters, I hung an American flag on my bedroom wall.

And then, one day, I landed in New York City.

The greatest city in the world. The city of skyscrapers and taxi cabs and yellow school buses, of Broadway lights and subway delays and late-night diners. The city where I was suddenly Carrie Bradshaw, Rachel Green, and Blair Waldorf all at once—dining with girlfriends, shopping until my bank account was wiped out, dating and getting my heart broken over and over again. It was exhilarating, chaotic, alive.

But most importantly, it was just like I had dreamed.

I could be myself.
I could speak my mind.
I could dress any way I liked.

So I stayed. I built a career here. Built a life here. Met the love of my life here. Had a family here. Made friends here. Made enemies here. Partied here. Played office politics here. Climbed the corporate ladder here. Quit my job and started my own business here.

I traveled the country, touched both oceans, stood in awe of its national parks, sat on its beaches, drove across its vast highways, moved out of New York City and found a quieter life elsewhere.

At every turn, it wasn’t just hard work that made it possible.

It was people.
People who helped me.
People who encouraged me.
People who rooted for me.
People who cared.

And then, one day, it all changed.

People who never talked about politics started getting into heated fights over it. There were sides now. Everything was an either-or. Us vs. them.

The sense of impending doom—like something was slipping away and no one knew how to stop it.

And suddenly, I realized—my American dream, the one I had worked so hard for, no longer sat on a solid foundation.

Because what made my dream possible wasn’t just America itself.

It was the idea of America—the belief that anyone could come here, build something, and belong.

I loved this America more than the country I came from.

Because it shares a bigger part of my history.

It shaped me.

It brought out the best in me.

It nurtured me and made me into who I am.

I think back on that American flag I hung on my bedroom wall as a teenager, believing in the dream it stood for.

I still want to believe in it.

But I don’t know if America does.