A poem from my life in limbo; written in the waiting, the silence, the not-yet.
I wrote a poem once. It gave me courage when I had none.
I clung to it like a lifeline, not because it was pretty, but because it helped me survive the ride between here and there.
But before I show it to you, I want to tell you where I was when I wrote it.
When I Found Out I Was Undocumented
I hated my parents when I figured it out.
And how do you even begin to hate people who sacrificed everything for you?
But the truth is: I was angry.
Because I was smart. Driven.
I wanted to go to college. I had big dreams. I knew there were lawyers. I knew my parents got their green cards.
I thought, First them, then me… right?
But the money wasn’t enough to get everyone’s papers at once.
And by the time it was my turn, I had turned 18.
Just like that. I went to the back of the line.
A line that was long and cruel and never-ending.
Still, I was lucky.
I found a local scholarship and made it to college.
But I couldn’t get a driver’s license. Couldn’t apply for aid. Couldn’t mess up… ever.
Because I wasn’t just invisible.
I was illegal.
And I knew it.
My friends knew it.
But only the right people could know it. Because if the wrong people found out… my life would’ve changed in an instant.
The Christians Hurt Me the Most
The hardest part? The people who judged me the most were the ones who claimed to love God.
The “Christians.”
I shared my undocumented story at my own church in Oklahoma, hoping to help others understand. But many of my “Christian brothers and sisters” judged me harshly. That experience broke something in me; not my faith, but my belief that every church was a safe place.
They called me a sinner for being undocumented.
They said I was breaking the law every day just by existing.
They asked why we didn’t do it “the right way.”
Some even told me I should just “go back home.”
But this was my home. I’d lived here since I was 10.
And even though I was at church almost every day, even though I tithed more than 10%, even though I prayed and cried and worked and tried.
I never felt like I belonged. Not fully. Not safely.
Then I Met My Husband
We fell in love. We got married. He was a U.S. citizen.
And the whispers started: “She just wants a green card.”
Mostly from.. you guessed it… more “Christians.”
Fifteen years later…
Three kids, three college students, a mortgage, and a dog.
I hope nobody still thinks that. But I remember how it felt to be questioned. Judged. Condemned.
And when I look at my immigrant brothers and sisters today, I ache.
I know the fear in their eyes. I lived it.
And even though I don’t get into debates, because I’ll cry, I just will; I pray.
And I write.
Because sometimes, it’s the only way I know how to keep breathing.
The Poem That Kept Me Going
I wrote this in that in-between season when I was here, but not allowed to be.
When my life felt like it was frozen in place.
When all I could do was wait and hope and keep walking anyway.
“The Ride” – A Poem Written in the Waiting
Everyone wants to get there.
Wherever there is; the goal, the peace, the life you dreamed of.
But sometimes we get so obsessed with arriving
That we forget to experience the ride.We look at here and think, “This isn’t enough.”
We look at there and think, “That’s when I’ll be happy.”
But without the in-between, there’s no becoming.The ride is what makes us who we are.
It makes us cry, laugh, scream, collapse.
It breaks us. Builds us.
It shapes us into someone who can handle the very place we want to go.I used to hate the process.
Now I see it’s where Life was closest.
Teaching me to trust.
To wait.
To soften.
To strengthen.We don’t all finish the ride. Some give up early.
Some step off too soon.
But those who keep going, one step, one breath, one day at a time; they make it.Not because they’re stronger.
But because they believe it’s worth it.I Made It… Kind Of
When you finally get there, you realize something unexpected:
There is just a new here.And you sigh, smile, maybe cry a little, and say:
“The ride.
Oh… that ride.”
To My Immigrant Sisters
If you’re still in the middle of the ride
Waiting, working, hiding, hoping
I see you.
I pray for you.
And sometimes, I sit and cry with you.
You are not alone.
You are not a villain.
You are not illegal.
You are becoming.
And you are so worthy of the ride.