Lost in Translation

I live a good life, a life that some might envy.

I have never struggled with anything—my parents made sure that I wouldn’t have to. Our house is always clean, no matter the mess my brother and I leave behind. My room is a quiet place, lined with bookshelves that hold more stories than I could ever finish. Dinner is always on the table by six, warm and ready. My biggest concerns most days are studying for exams or deciding what to do with my free time.

My life has been smooth sailing—no currents, no tides, no waves.

The same cannot be said of my parents.

I was 13 when I first moved here with my family. A life in Nepal forgotten as we tried to adapt to the U.S quickly. I adapted the fastest, English was needlessly easy. And so I became the translator for the family.

It started with small things: reading letters that came in the mail, ordering food at restaurants, explaining school forms. Then came the bigger moments, Mom needing me to explain to her boss why she was late because the bus didn’t come, Dad asking me to email his manager about some work problems I’ll never understand.

I became their voice in a world that didn’t want to listen to them.

At thirteen, it felt like a burden. I didn’t want the responsibility of explaining things I didn’t always understand myself. I resented the way people looked past them, addressing me instead, as though they weren’t there.

Most of all I resented my parents.

I was thirteen and stubbornly self-centered and, as most teenagers tend to do, I lashed out. Why should I translate your statements? Why must I be the one to talk to customer service? Why do I need to make your appointments?

There was a myriad of whys and all of them led to the same answer:My parents aren’t like other parents. 

It was a daming realization that only gave birth to more resentment as I aged. I saw other kids whose parents spoke the language fluently, who didn’t need their children to be their voices. Their parents didn’t fumble over words or rely on them to bridge the gap between their lives and the world outside.

I hated the difference between me and those kids.

 It’s a laughable thought now, but at 13 it felt like the whole world was weighing down on me. 

Now that I’m in college, I see it differently. I understand their struggle, their sacrifices, their quiet courage. I see how much it took for my dad to leave behind the life he knew as a mountain guide. I see the resilience in my mom, who went from being a homemaker to a janitor, cleaning office rooms for people who didn’t even know her name.

They didn’t just give up their jobs. They gave up their identities.

They traded respect for survival, familiarity for uncertainty. They let go of the lives they had built, the communities they had grown within, and the names they carried with pride. They did it all so my brother and I could have the chance to build lives of our own.

But there’s only so much a thirteen-year-old can understand.

Looking back, the word “ungrateful” describes me the best. My parents gave me privileges they never had themselves and still I resented them for not being more. It was like asking a dying star not to collapse into a black hole.

Do I still resent them?

It’s a question I can’t fully answer.

Sometimes, when my mom asks me to call the bank for her or my dad struggles with an online form, I feel the old frustration bubbling up. For a fleeting moment, I’m that thirteen-year-old again, just wanting to be free of it all.

But the feeling disappears as quickly as it comes.

It comes with a quiet understanding that they tried their best, that I know their sacrifices are the reason I have the privilege to dream, to grow, to live comfortably.

Part of me wonders if I’ll ever fully reconcile the difference between me and those kids. If I’ll ever stop wanting them to be like the parents I envied as a kid; fluent, confident, self-sufficient. But another part of me doesn’t want that, because I know that who they are and what they endured has shaped me more than anything else.

So, do I resent them?

Maybe a little. Maybe not at all.

But I do know that now when I think about my role as their translator, it doesn’t feel like a burden anymore. It feels like a bridge; one that connects who they were to who I am, one that allows me to understand not just their struggles, but also their resilience.

 

This isn’t my experience alone. To understand other perspectives, I spoke with someone who shares a similar story. Jasmine Dalida is a second-year undergraduate student at the University of Washington pursuing a nursing degree. Jasmine grew up in the Philippines and moved to Seattle in 2018.

“I think the idea of privilege is complex,” Jasmine said. “Even though I may not have had the type of privilege that comes from wealth or status, the fact that I’ve been able to overcome big challenges in my life is a kind of privilege.”

She shared how it was just her, her brother, and her dad when they moved to the U.S. Her mother, unfortunately, passed away before the move.

“My determination and strength, which came from losing my mom and adapting to a new country, have given me a unique perspective and inner strength,” she said.

Jasmine’s story is one of resilience shaped by loss and change. A young child who moved to a different country, having to adapt to her new environment while her family does the same. 

“When we first arrived, it felt like everything was on my dad’s shoulders,” she said. “He had to provide for us, navigate a completely new system, and raise us without my mom. Watching him push through those challenges taught me to be resourceful and independent, even when things felt overwhelming.”

After observing her dad’s perseverance, Jasmine picked up a job to help lessen the burden on his shoulders. The job wasn’t the best or the most respected but knowing that her working would lessen her father’s burden, she pulled through.

“As a child, I had to take on a lot of responsibilities to help my family, like working at McDonald’s in high school and volunteering. These were heavy burdens for a young person, and they affected my social, emotional, and school life. But I’m proud that I could handle these challenges and still chase my dreams.” 

When asked what advice she would give to her younger self, Jasmine paused.

“I’d tell her it’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” she said. “But I’d also tell her to appreciate her dad more. They were struggling too, just in different ways. They gave up so much to give me a better life, even if I didn’t see it back then.”

I asked her what she wished more people understood about the immigrant child experience.

“That we’re not ungrateful,” she said. “Sometimes people think we’re complaining, but it’s not that. It’s hard to balance being thankful for your parents’ sacrifices and also acknowledging the weight of what they ask of you. Both can be true.”

Jasmine’s words mirrored my own journey. Our stories may be different, but we share the same values.

My parents aren’t like other parents; and that’s a truth I’ve come to carry with pride because they taught me what it means to endure, to adapt, and to fight for a better life. And like Jasmine, I’m determined to honor their sacrifices, not just in words, but in the life I build.

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Sonam was a fellow in the 2024 Story Gathering Sandbox, a program that gives young writers the opportunity to publish an article for our news outlet, Voices.