It was a rocky journey to get here, to say the least. For over a year before we took our leap of faith, Dad was toiling on another nation’s railroad, blowing giant chunks of stone out of mountains with sticks of dynamite for months on end with little more than pennies to show for it; in his absence we’d been struggling to make ends meet and hold on until we were called to join him. Finally, that call came.

I still remember moving day. We were loaded onto a ship bound for “somewhere new,” although nobody really bothered to tell me much about where, exactly, we were headed. Maybe they didn’t know a whole lot about it themselves; I’m not sure. All I knew at the time was that we were leaving, and we were saying goodbye to all our friends and family and every place I’d ever known for an uncertain future in a foreign land.

I hate boats. There’s nothing inherently wrong with them most of the time, but when you’re unwittingly imprisoned on one as you race to a strange new country for never-ending expanses of hours and minutes and seconds, the very nature of a boat becomes unbearable. Think about it: They’re clunky and unstable and you never know if the next wave will pitch you out over the edge and into the unforgiving sea, and yet under a blanket of darkness that even the stars are unable to push past a boat is the only salvation in sight. To this day, I can recall with startling precision the sensation of being rocked to and fro a million and a half times a day as I stared into the endless waters and wondered when we’d be able to set our sights on our new home.

After a while—I can’t tell you how long it was, only that my mind had gone numb by the time the anchor had been dropped—I was able to step off that wretched hunk of metal and take in the change of scenery: trees, coniferous ones that kept their spiny needles year-round, everywhere; space, too much of it, surrounding me and making me feel more vulnerable than I’d ever been at the mercy of the ocean; too many people who didn’t look like me or sound like me and spoke some nasal-sounding language that grated on my ears. I longed, suddenly, for the creaking and rocking of the ship once more. I yearned for some form of familiarity, no matter how basic. And I wanted, above all, to go back home. But it was too late for that now.

What happens when someone is uprooted from the only place they’ve known, the only place they know to be infallibly safe and warm and comfortable, for somewhere new and scary? At the time, I feared for myself: I was afraid that everything about me—my identity, my connection with the place I knew to be my forever home, and even my ability to exist and survive and be OK—would be threatened and ultimately torn to shreds. They had already barred us for a time from entering further into the country because of something they said Dad had to pay called the Head Tax; we found out later that he’d gone around and taken out every loan he could to scrabble together enough funds to get my mother and I through to him. If they didn’t welcome us, foreigners who clearly weren’t wanted here, with open arms even when we’d done nothing but step foot on the soil of the land, what hope did we have that we’d be accepted when we’d been around here longer? I felt something ominous creeping up my spine whenever I allowed myself to consider the prospect of the future, and I swallowed hard as troublesome thoughts spun around my head like an incessant swarm of bees at night.

At the same time, I knew it was for the best. My parents had discussed this plan thoroughly, thinking of every possible challenge and roadblock months and months in advance to ensure that nothing was overlooked. They told me, in simplified terms, that it would be difficult; as expected, I protested and argued and pleaded against it. But, in the end, I gave in and conceded my defeat because, as much as I wanted to deny it, they probably knew what was best for us all. I knew now, too, that I had to be as strong as I could—as hardworking and tenacious as possible—to make it all worth it: the tumultuous trip, the sleepless nights, the stress of my mother and the pain and danger my father had undergone to make it all possible. I had to build upon the foundation they’d laid, carefully and precariously, for me. It was the unspoken sentiment my parents repeated to me when they bade me good night as I trekked to my cot. So even when my stomach turned and twisted in knots, even when I was sick with the fear of all the newness and the influx of the unfamiliar, I vowed to do the best I could to overcome and even embrace the strange. One step at a time, I repeated to myself like a prayer. One step at a time. I’ve got to do right by them.

I’m going to give it my best shot.

—By Victoria C., 18, Alberta, Canada