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Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
I AM A LEGACY.
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"They didn’t get those opportunities, so for them to see us succeed, it’s like proof that the struggle was worth it."
A first-generation student shares her reflections about her parents journey through immigration and how it has affected her identity today. “My parents immigrated from Somalia before I was born, so most of what I know about home comes from their stories,” Iqra shares. “For them, home was this place where everyone was together—your family, your language, your people. That’s not something I ever really got to experience in the same way.”
While her parents’ memories of Somalia are filled with warmth and familiarity, their move was driven by necessity. “There was a civil war going on… that’s what led them to leave,” she explains. “At first they were in New York, but then my mom found family here in Seattle, so we ended up here.”
Iqra describes often feeling the push and pull of two identities. “At first I went to a private Islamic school. My mom really wanted us to be around people who looked like us. But once I moved to public schools, there was this kind of culture shock,” she says. “You start to realize that not every space is going to accept who you are. That’s when I started leaning on my mom more—she went through that too.”
One of the things Iqra feels most deeply is the cost of distance. “I think for my parents, it’s really hard to know they might never go back. Somalia has changed so much. They always talk about retiring there one day, but... it’s not the same place anymore.” She pauses. “It’s hard to go back to somewhere that doesn’t really exist anymore.”
Yet despite the hardship, she finds deep pride in what her family has built. “Education is a huge thing for us. My siblings and I work hard in school and I can see how much that means to my parents. They didn’t get those opportunities, so for them to see us succeed, it’s like proof that the struggle was worth it.”
Iqra’s mother now runs a daycare, and all three siblings are pursuing their bachelor’s degrees at UW. Iqra herself is passionate about mental health and envisions a future giving back to the Somali community in South Seattle. “A big part of me always asks, ‘How is the work I do going to impact my community?’”
There’s a quiet resilience that runs through her story. Whether in cultural clothes kept across generations, family photos, or memories of grandparents who couldn’t be reached in time, Iqra carries both love and loss. “Sometimes being here feels like limbo,” she admits. “You’re here, but you can’t do things like go to a funeral back home. You’re not fully from here, but you’re also not there anymore. And still—you keep going.”
Join the story
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
"They didn’t get those opportunities, so for them to see us succeed, it’s like proof that the struggle was worth it."
A first-generation student shares her reflections about her parents journey through immigration and how it has affected her identity today. “My parents immigrated from Somalia before I was born, so most of what I know about home comes from their stories,” Iqra shares. “For them, home was this place where everyone was together—your family, your language, your people. That’s not something I ever really got to experience in the same way.”
While her parents’ memories of Somalia are filled with warmth and familiarity, their move was driven by necessity. “There was a civil war going on… that’s what led them to leave,” she explains. “At first they were in New York, but then my mom found family here in Seattle, so we ended up here.”
Iqra describes often feeling the push and pull of two identities. “At first I went to a private Islamic school. My mom really wanted us to be around people who looked like us. But once I moved to public schools, there was this kind of culture shock,” she says. “You start to realize that not every space is going to accept who you are. That’s when I started leaning on my mom more—she went through that too.”
One of the things Iqra feels most deeply is the cost of distance. “I think for my parents, it’s really hard to know they might never go back. Somalia has changed so much. They always talk about retiring there one day, but... it’s not the same place anymore.” She pauses. “It’s hard to go back to somewhere that doesn’t really exist anymore.”
Yet despite the hardship, she finds deep pride in what her family has built. “Education is a huge thing for us. My siblings and I work hard in school and I can see how much that means to my parents. They didn’t get those opportunities, so for them to see us succeed, it’s like proof that the struggle was worth it.”
Iqra’s mother now runs a daycare, and all three siblings are pursuing their bachelor’s degrees at UW. Iqra herself is passionate about mental health and envisions a future giving back to the Somali community in South Seattle. “A big part of me always asks, ‘How is the work I do going to impact my community?’”
There’s a quiet resilience that runs through her story. Whether in cultural clothes kept across generations, family photos, or memories of grandparents who couldn’t be reached in time, Iqra carries both love and loss. “Sometimes being here feels like limbo,” she admits. “You’re here, but you can’t do things like go to a funeral back home. You’re not fully from here, but you’re also not there anymore. And still—you keep going.”
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Scroll to read more
"They didn’t get those opportunities, so for them to see us succeed, it’s like proof that the struggle was worth it."
A first-generation student shares her reflections about her parents journey through immigration and how it has affected her identity today. “My parents immigrated from Somalia before I was born, so most of what I know about home comes from their stories,” Iqra shares. “For them, home was this place where everyone was together—your family, your language, your people. That’s not something I ever really got to experience in the same way.”
While her parents’ memories of Somalia are filled with warmth and familiarity, their move was driven by necessity. “There was a civil war going on… that’s what led them to leave,” she explains. “At first they were in New York, but then my mom found family here in Seattle, so we ended up here.”
Iqra describes often feeling the push and pull of two identities. “At first I went to a private Islamic school. My mom really wanted us to be around people who looked like us. But once I moved to public schools, there was this kind of culture shock,” she says. “You start to realize that not every space is going to accept who you are. That’s when I started leaning on my mom more—she went through that too.”
One of the things Iqra feels most deeply is the cost of distance. “I think for my parents, it’s really hard to know they might never go back. Somalia has changed so much. They always talk about retiring there one day, but... it’s not the same place anymore.” She pauses. “It’s hard to go back to somewhere that doesn’t really exist anymore.”
Yet despite the hardship, she finds deep pride in what her family has built. “Education is a huge thing for us. My siblings and I work hard in school and I can see how much that means to my parents. They didn’t get those opportunities, so for them to see us succeed, it’s like proof that the struggle was worth it.”
Iqra’s mother now runs a daycare, and all three siblings are pursuing their bachelor’s degrees at UW. Iqra herself is passionate about mental health and envisions a future giving back to the Somali community in South Seattle. “A big part of me always asks, ‘How is the work I do going to impact my community?’”
There’s a quiet resilience that runs through her story. Whether in cultural clothes kept across generations, family photos, or memories of grandparents who couldn’t be reached in time, Iqra carries both love and loss. “Sometimes being here feels like limbo,” she admits. “You’re here, but you can’t do things like go to a funeral back home. You’re not fully from here, but you’re also not there anymore. And still—you keep going.”
The struggle that it took my parents to come here and become successful in a foreign place is something that is always on my mind.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
"They didn’t get those opportunities, so for them to see us succeed, it’s like proof that the struggle was worth it."
A first-generation student shares her reflections about her parents journey through immigration and how it has affected her identity today. “My parents immigrated from Somalia before I was born, so most of what I know about home comes from their stories,” Iqra shares. “For them, home was this place where everyone was together—your family, your language, your people. That’s not something I ever really got to experience in the same way.”
While her parents’ memories of Somalia are filled with warmth and familiarity, their move was driven by necessity. “There was a civil war going on… that’s what led them to leave,” she explains. “At first they were in New York, but then my mom found family here in Seattle, so we ended up here.”
Iqra describes often feeling the push and pull of two identities. “At first I went to a private Islamic school. My mom really wanted us to be around people who looked like us. But once I moved to public schools, there was this kind of culture shock,” she says. “You start to realize that not every space is going to accept who you are. That’s when I started leaning on my mom more—she went through that too.”
One of the things Iqra feels most deeply is the cost of distance. “I think for my parents, it’s really hard to know they might never go back. Somalia has changed so much. They always talk about retiring there one day, but... it’s not the same place anymore.” She pauses. “It’s hard to go back to somewhere that doesn’t really exist anymore.”
Yet despite the hardship, she finds deep pride in what her family has built. “Education is a huge thing for us. My siblings and I work hard in school and I can see how much that means to my parents. They didn’t get those opportunities, so for them to see us succeed, it’s like proof that the struggle was worth it.”
Iqra’s mother now runs a daycare, and all three siblings are pursuing their bachelor’s degrees at UW. Iqra herself is passionate about mental health and envisions a future giving back to the Somali community in South Seattle. “A big part of me always asks, ‘How is the work I do going to impact my community?’”
There’s a quiet resilience that runs through her story. Whether in cultural clothes kept across generations, family photos, or memories of grandparents who couldn’t be reached in time, Iqra carries both love and loss. “Sometimes being here feels like limbo,” she admits. “You’re here, but you can’t do things like go to a funeral back home. You’re not fully from here, but you’re also not there anymore. And still—you keep going.”
Scroll to read more