Making Peace with the Space Between Sacrifice and Love

I am the daughter of two Jamaican immigrants.

It never really occurred to me, until I was way into adulthood, how much growing up with immigrant parents shaped who I am—in good ways and difficult ones. Perhaps I’ve had the confidence to pursue my dreams because of my parents’ unwavering belief that a good education would open all doors for me. When you’ve watched your parents sacrifice their comfort—and sometimes their happiness—to give you everything they wished they had, how could you not feel grateful? When you’ve seen them build something from nothing, how could you not be inspired? How could I not be motivated to chase my dreams, especially when I’ve been given the resources they never had?

It’s hard to hear stories about my parents' earliest years in America. My mom immigrated as a teenager with her sisters, following their mother, who had already spent months in New York working to bring them over. She arrived in the winter and immediately hated it because of the dead trees. My dad came alone in his late twenties. Neither of them had even finished high school when they arrived. My mom’s first job was at a belt factory, where she shared her earnings with her mother until she became pregnant with my brother at 19. My dad’s first job was sweeping floors at construction sites. He often couldn’t even afford a beer for 85 cents, much less a night’s dinner. In his first two years in the U.S., he barely made $500 yearly.

In stark contrast, I grew up with most of my material needs and comforts being met. I had enough clothing to express myself creatively. I got American Girl Dolls, yes multiple, for Christmas over the years. I studied ballet and tap at a pricey dance academy. I can’t recall many things I asked for that I didn’t receive—except quality time and support for my complex emotional world.

As they say, your love language often reflects what you lacked growing up…