A Year in the Shadows and Light: A Memoir of My Journey as an International Student in the USA

Exactly one year ago, on a humid Lagos morning that clung to my skin like a reluctant farewell, I stepped through the international airport with a heart so heavy it felt numb. You might wonder, didn’t I care about leaving my family behind? Some emotions are volcanoes: they build until they erupt into silence, leaving only ash where fire once raged. 

I breezed through immigration, stamps thudding like final judgments, until I reached the passport control, the infamous “point of no return.” Peering through the transparent door, I caught a glimpse of my family turning away, their silhouettes blurring in the fluorescent haze. In that frozen instant, reality crashed over me like a tidal wave: I was truly leaving for the USA, trading the chaotic rhythm of Nigerian streets for an unknown horizon over 6,000 miles away. 

My chest tightened, breaths shallow, as I imagined their empty seats at the dinner table, the echo of laughter I’d no longer hear. Would I ever feel whole again? 

After 19 grueling hours in the air, cramped seats, recycled cabin air tasting of stale coffee, and the endless hum of engines lulling me into uneasy dreams, I finally touched down in America. The indifferent fog in my mind lingered, a shield against the disbelief that I’d left my loved ones so far behind. 

Stepping out, the heat hit like a warm embrace, the sky a vast, unblemished canvas still glowing at 8:30 PM, unlike Lagos’ quick descent into night. The roads stretched wide and empty, a stark contrast to the perpetual gridlock back home, where horns blared like an urban symphony. 

Little Rock, Arkansas, welcomed me with unexpected kindness: a gift from the International Friends Organization (IFO) waited at the airport, a small basket of snacks and essentials that felt like a lifeline in a foreign sea. My mentor housed me for two weeks, his cozy home a sanctuary where I battled jet lag, waking at odd hours to stare at the ceiling, the quiet amplifying my isolation. Hillcrest Community Church introduced me to warm smiles and handshakes, and I even gained an “American uncle,” a story for later. For a fleeting moment, life shimmered with promise, the community’s care wrapping around me like a soft blanket against the unknown.

THE LOWS

But beauty can shatter in an instant, and soon, the cracks appeared. Life hurled its trials at me, each one building on the last, testing if I’d bend or break. Let’s unravel the struggles that turned my dream into a nightmare, starting with the academic abyss that swallowed my confidence whole.

Research was supposed to be my triumph, a fully funded PhD straight from my Bachelor’s, beating out over 2,000 applicants. Praise-worthy, right? Yet no one warns you about the shadows lurking in that victory. 

Picture this: sitting in a dimly lit seminar room, the air thick with the scent of old books and fresh coffee, surrounded by classmates boasting 10+ years of experience, shelves of publications under their belts. Their voices echoed with authority as they dissected complex theories, while I shrank in my seat. My notes, a scribbled mess of doubt. 

“Do I even deserve this?” I’d whisper to myself during late-night study sessions, the glow of my laptop screen casting ghostly shadows on the walls. Imposter syndrome crept in like fog. Suspense hung in the air. Would the next class expose me as a fraud? Each day escalated the pressure, my heart racing as deadlines loomed, wondering if I’d crumble before proving my worth.

Then came the weather, a foe I naively dismissed. 

Back in West Africa, anything below 16°C (60.8°F) chills to the bone, but I told myself it wouldn’t matter. How wrong I was, it became my relentless tormentor. Winter descended like a predator, temperatures plummeting to -15°C, the wind howling through bare trees like a mournful ghost. I’d bundle in my winter jacket, but it was futile; the cold pierced like needles, numbing my fingers and toes during the 10-minute walk to campus. 

Imagine trudging through snow-slicked paths, boots crunching on ice that mirrored my fragile resolve, breath fogging the air as streetlights cast long, eerie shadows. Sleep evaded me, nights spent tossing under heavy blankets, the heater’s hum a mocking lullaby. Motivation drained away, I couldn’t focus on books, my mind as foggy as the frosted windows. Everything suffered: assignments piled up, unopened, while I curled up, shivering not just from the chill but from the growing despair. Would spring ever come, or was this endless winter a sign I’d never adapt?

Financial woes added fuel to the fire, revealing the myth of “fully funded.” Scholarship income sounded secure, but student fees devoured 33% before taxes, leaving me scraping by paycheck to paycheck. 

As an international student, luxuries were illusions; the funding covered basics, but unexpected costs, groceries spiking, a surprise bill, turned every dollar into a tightrope walk. I’d stare at my bank app in the quiet of my dorm, the screen’s blue light illuminating my furrowed brow, calculating if ramen for dinner was inevitable again.

The pressure built suspenseful: one wrong expense, and I’d teeter into debt. Living hand-to-mouth in a land of abundance felt like cruel irony, my wallet as empty as the promises I’d clung to.

But the deepest cut came with the scholarship bombshell. After spring semester kicked off, my PI dropped the news: no summer funding, courtesy of administrative whims. My heart plummeted, a stone in my chest, as I sat in his office, the clock ticking like a countdown to doom. The end of spring loomed closer, each day a step toward financial freefall. 

As a first-year PhD focused on research, I’d skipped internships, now, regret burned hot. Desperation drove me into the job market late; most positions were snatched. I kept faith, applying to aligned openings, heart pounding with each submission. Interviews with reputable companies followed, suspense mounting, would this be my salvation? I shone in some, but faltered in others (my fault, nerves betraying me). 

Then, the breakthrough: an offer from a dream company, full remote flexibility. We negotiated on the spot, visions of stability dancing in my head, the aroma of success like fresh rain after drought.

Yet, it was a facade, a cruel tease. Work authorization from the university sparked frictions, delays piling up like storm clouds. The offer rescinded in a heartbeat, email popping up like a thunderclap. I froze at my desk, the room spinning, hope shattering into shards that cut deep. Mentally, it wrecked me, tears blurring the screen, isolation amplifying the echo of failure. 

But reflection revealed a silver lining: perhaps it was divine timing for character growth. God hadn’t brought me this far to fail, right? Still, the deception stung; my high hopes dropped like a curtain, leaving me in darkness. What next? The uncertainty hung heavy, suspense thick, would I sink, or find a way to rise?

THE HIGHS

In that abyss, a flicker emerged, not a dramatic rescue, but a quiet realization: grace had been threading through my story all along, starting from day one. 

Hospitality wasn’t just a word; it was the warm handshake at the airport, the IFO’s wholesome gift basket overflowing with treats that tasted like home, chocolates melting on my tongue, a reminder that kindness bridges oceans. It built from there, weaving a safety net of people who became family. 

From the Nigerian community, with their familiar accents echoing like Lagos markets, to the natives whose genuine curiosity sparked late-night conversations under starry Arkansas skies. Whether it was grocery shopping, pushing a cart through aisles stocked with unfamiliar brands, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, or registering a bank account, fingers trembling on forms, someone always appeared, guiding me with patient smiles. Medical appointments? A friend drove me, the car’s heater blasting warmth against the chill outside, turning dread into shared stories.

Fast forward to my 23rd birthday, a day I’d planned to ignore, burying myself in research to forget the ache of absence. But suspense built unknowingly, a whisper here, a secretive glance there. Then, the surprise: a wonderful friend, dear as a sibling, organized a dinner with a circle of others. Imagine walking into a dimly lit restaurant, the aroma of sizzling steaks and fresh bread wafting through, only to be greeted by cheers and hugs. Laughter bubbling over candlelight. 

It meant everything, tears pricked my eyes, not from sorrow, but from the overwhelming joy of being seen, celebrated in a land far from home. Who knew isolation could flip to belonging so swiftly?

Hillcrest Community Church became my anchor, feeling like home from the first service. Warm hugs enveloped me like sunbeams breaking through clouds, beautiful smiles lighting up the pews, and an indefatigable acceptance that melted my defenses. The powerful word of God resonated through hymns that vibrated in my chest, easing the settling-in pains I’d never anticipated. And there, I met Uncle Jeff, the most loving soul imaginable. 

Picture a man with a twinkle in his eye, cracking jokes funnier than Chris Rock’s stand-up, his laughter booming like thunderclaps that chased away my blues. He looks out for me, reading my moods like an open book, spotting the slump in my shoulders from across the room, even when I hid behind a forced grin. Watching him walk with God, faith steady as an ancient oak, inspired me deeply, a blueprint for my own path. Uncle Jeff is the type who’d trek to the ends of the earth for you. People puzzle over how a “white” man became uncle to an “African,” simple: he’s blood now, bonds forged stronger than biology.

Shifting the spotlight to my research, productivity surged like a dam breaking. Just four months in, I published my first paper in IEEE, a thrill that sent adrenaline rushing, my fingers flying over the keyboard in the lab’s sterile glow, equations aligning like stars. Then, presenting at the NSBE Conference in Chicago: standing on stage under bright lights, the audience — a sea of faces, my voice steady despite the butterflies. 

A perfect 4.0 CGPA capped my first year, earning an invite to Kappa Phi Kappa, honors that felt like validation after the doubts. I won the Chan Wui and Yunyin endowed scholarship, coins jingling in my pocket as a symbol of perseverance. Mentoring at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock’s AI Tech Launch program let me pay it forward, guiding wide-eyed students through code mazes. 

Now, I’m President of the NSBE chapter at UA Little Rock, leading meetings where ideas spark like fireworks. Add Microsoft Student Ambassador and Power User Community group leader to the list, roles that expanded my world, networks buzzing with potential.

You must be wondering about love, yes, I’ve little to no experience there, a chapter yet unwritten, suspenseful in its absence.

My life in the past year? Summarized in one word: GRACE. I’m loving it, the hits come hard, but that’s the fun, forging strength from fire.

As an international student, my advice: mix with natives and peers; information is gold for productivity here. Apply for internships, network relentlessly, conversations over coffee turning into opportunities. Leave your comfort zone, learn finances, investments, retirement.

There’s so much to absorb in God’s Own Country, from its vast landscapes to innovative spirit. I enjoy everything about America, the promise, the people, the possibilities.

One year down, and I’m not just surviving, I’m thriving, eyes on the horizon, heart full.

What adventures await next? Only time will tell, but GRACE has my back.

Written by 2022 MT Scholar, Ayorinde Alase.