Feel free to tell us about a memory, a photo, a song, or just a few thoughts on what migration means to you.

Please note that there is no right or wrong post. This is a safe place for us to reflect and connect as a class.         

I am a first-generation migrant from Buenos Aires, Argentina. My family and I migrated to Toronto twice: first when I was two years old, and again when I was seventeen.

When growing up, living between languages and cultures felt as a challenge and it was this challenge that eventually shaped by career, life choices and the proposal of this course.

I have only returned to visit Buenos Aires once, when I was twenty years old. Visiting my place of birth made me realize how much relocations changed me. While never forgetting my Spanish-Italian roots, I feel grateful to call Canada my home.

I am looking forward to hearing everyone's experiences within ethnic spaces.

My mom was a pediatrician, my dad was an electrical engineer, we owned our apartment, and I attended a prestigious school in the city, so why did we leave all of that behind to pursue a new life 12,215 km away from home? Pre-teen me had absolutely no idea. In fact, the most vivid memories I can recall from that time period are those of my unbearable tantrums that followed any mention of the word “Canada”.

According to my relatives, I was a very manageable kid growing up. However, the year leading up to our move was a different story. I remember feeling as though the ground was being ripped from underneath me, and nothing could bring me comfort.

Even the mere thought of being anywhere but my childhood home made my skin crawl. We lived on the fifth floor of a seven-story building, which my dadumoni (paternal grandmother in Bengali) had designed, and we had nightly sleepovers at her flat on the second floor.

After my grandfather was killed in the Bangladesh-Pakistan war, my dadumoni was forced to raise three children on her own without a source of income or proper education. I like to think of her as Barbie, as she had every job after my grandfather’s passing to make a living and build a legacy from the ground up. I grew very attached to her and was not prepared to leave her behind, as I spent a lot of time with her and she was my idol.

My outbursts came to a halt as I began accepting that this was happening whether I liked it or not. With time, I came to realise that my flare-ups must have left no space for my parents to grieve their old lives. Sure, it was hard for me, but they had spent years building the relationships, careers, and homes they had back home. They had to manage every step of the immigration process, all while being strong for us.

Now, I feel immensely grateful every day for the risks that my parents took as immigrants so their children could have what they never did.

I was born to visibly white parents in an extremely (then) white city in Southern Ontario. I grew up with the knowledge that I was "from here", and that my family had been in Canada for millenia.

Growing up, I learned that this reality was at least somewhat fabricated. I only really have one grandparent born in Ontario. My grandmother was born in Newfoundland before it was even officially part of Canada. Her mother was Mi'kmaq, but she was raised by a loving Irish couple. My grandmother came to Ontario seeking more opportunity than the Rock could provide her. I spent most of my formative years with her, and some of her linguistic traits have certainly been transmitted to me. I've only ever been aware of this fact when confronted with humourous reactions to expressions such as "Lord love a Duck", which had always been normal in my family. But I was always otherwise a "normal Canadian".

On the other side of my family, migration has played a huge role. I was born to a Dutchman, whose parents both came to Canada during their teenage years. My Oma was around the age of 12 when she came here. She learned English very proficiently, and "passes" as Canadian-born. My Opa, on the other hand, came to this country right before his 20s, and he still sounds, in my mothers words, "as if he fell off the boat yesterday". I have always keenly wanted to learn their language and about their culture. But they have always been secretive about it. My Opa is more open, but even he tends to shut down any conversation surrounding my or his Dutchness with something to the effect of "Canada is our country now. There is go going back", or "Holland turned its back on us and Canada welcomed us. We speak English, and this is how it will be".

I don't think there is anything wrong with being both Canadian and Dutch. As an adult, I have taken it upon myself to learn the Dutch language, and I am in the (long) process of recovering my Dutch citizenship that I held (and lost) as a baby. This is a part of me that I feel has been lost, but that I am slowly rebuilding of my own volition.

For my own part, I have always had nomadic (migratory) tendancies. I lived abroad for the first time at the age of 13, in France. I have also lived in Ireland and Spain, and my time is now split (albeit unequally) between Canada and Denmark. It has been interesting living in a place where the language is completely foreign to me, despite the fact that most Danes are highly proficient English speakers. It is hard to determine where I belong. At times, it feels like I belong in my birthland. The struggles I face with my sense of indigeneity tell me I belong in Holland. But I know the born and raised 'echt Hollanders' consider me an outsider. I clearly feel like an outsider in Denmark - but the knowledge that I clearly am consoles me, since I have no expectation of belonging here. I think that my sense of belonging is quite fragmented, as if I have put down little flags as I have moved on this Earth. And perhaps that is okay.

During the Atlantic Slave Trade of my ancestors were taken from Africa and deposited into the Caribbean. Through emancipation and independence, cultures have grown and people have been able to crate beautiful products like me.
The memory I’d like to share is from my very first adult trip.

There was something about getting on a plane going to visit another place. It was a melting pot just like Toronto. You have several people with different backgrounds, races, and experiences. That trip in 2016, turned into 10 years of travel through different islands and countries. Creating my own carbon footprint and memoir of my own migration. As I look back to all of the fun places I’ve been to, I look forward to more exploration and new experiences of travel.

My next stop will be London, England. To visit the V&A museum. Specifically to explore more culture and collections of other wonderful people.

Leaving all of that behind to start fresh in a new country was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

I still remember my first weeks in school here. On the very first day, I walked into class and couldn’t understand everything the teacher was saying in English. I felt nervous about speaking up, and even small things like asking where a classroom was felt intimidating. It was overwhelming at times, and I often wondered how I would ever fit in.

Over time, I’ve started to see migration as both a challenge and a gift. It taught me resilience and pushed me out of my comfort zone.

For me, migration means carrying my roots from Guinea with me while also learning how to build a new sense of belonging here in Canada.

My mom left Colombia just a month after my third birthday to come to Canada. At that age, I couldn’t truly understand what was happening,I only knew that the person I needed most was gone. My memory of her was so faint, yet the sound of her voice over the phone became my lifeline. I grew up talking to her every day, clinging to her words, feeling her love without being able to picture her face. Even in that absence, her voice gave me a sense of home, one I could never fully explain.

Then came the moment I had dreamed of but also feared…the day I would see my mom again, or as I often say, the day I would “meet” my mom. It was the most exciting yet terrifying moment of my young life because it meant leaving behind the only person who had raised me, cared for me, and loved me every single day, my grandmother. To step onto that plane was to trade one home for another, to risk losing the comfort I knew in order to mend the emptiness I carried for so long.

Now, after 13 years of living with my mother in Canada, I have come to understand something deeply painful yet honest: no matter how much time we spend together, I still feel like I am trying to make up for the years we lost. That void, the years of growing up without her, still lingers. Even now, I find myself wishing for more time, as though we are still trying to stitch together all the moments that distance once stole from us.

My name is Sofia, and to me, migration means both opportunity and sacrifice. My parents came to Canada from Indonesia in 2003, before I was born, in search of a better future. Growing up, I often thought about the choices they made and the challenges they faced. For example, my mom earned her degree in Indonesia but was unable to use it here in Canada, which reminds me of how migration can involve giving up certain accomplishments in order to start fresh in a new country.

Migration also means carrying two worlds within me. Because of the major shift of moving, when my parents had me in 2005, they brought me back to Indonesia to live with my grandma while they stayed in Canada working as hard as they could to save money and buy us a home. I ended up living in Indonesia for three years, surrounded by my extended family, which helped me stay rooted in my culture and language. I feel fortunate to be fluent in Bahasa Indonesia, as it allows me to communicate with my relatives and stay close to my traditions. Even now, I try to visit Indonesia at least once a year to see my family and strengthen those connections. These trips remind me of where I come from and help me hold onto my roots, even while living in Canada.

For me, migration is not just about moving from one place to another, it is about honouring the sacrifices my parents made, embracing the opportunities I have in Canada, like being able to go to school without worrying about whether my degree will be valid, and never forgetting the culture and traditions that continue to shape who I am.

Adjusting to a new culture, a different climate, and a higher standard of living was incredibly difficult. In many ways, it still is. At first, migration brought feelings of identity loss, homesickness, doubt, and a constant struggle to find a sense of belonging. I missed everything that felt familiar—the warmth of my community, the energy of my surroundings, and the comfort of knowing where I fit in.

Over time, I began to grow into this new life. Slowly, Toronto started to feel more like home. Despite my deep love for Trinidad, I sometimes find myself seeing it more as a place I visit rather than the place I live. That realization can be painful, and I do feel guilty sometimes for loving Toronto a bit more than I expected to. But I remind myself that it's not about choosing one country over the other. It's about the life I’m trying to build—the opportunities, the stability, and the future I see for myself here. That is what draws me in.

To me, migration is like a mirror. What you see in it depends on where you are in life and how you choose to view your journey. Right now, I see a hopeful picture filled with potential and growth. Ten years ago, or ten years from now, that image might look different. And I think that’s the true beauty of migration—it changes as you do.

After about three years, of living in Colombia, my parents separated and my mother came back to Canada with my brothers and I. I came back to the country I was born in, not knowing the language very frustrated I was leaving all I had known, even if it was only a few years. My mom decided this was the best for us as she would find her community and her "village" here in Canada through her mom and sisters. Although I was upset at first and strongly disliked so many aspects of being here I have now grown to love and appreciate both countries equally.

To me migration means adapting and belonging. I learned to adapt in two different cultures while also finding a sense of belonging in both. A part of me will always belong to Colombia just as a part of me belongs to Canada. It also means finding your support. My mother came back needing support from her family starting her new chapter of motherhood having to now raise us alone. But always kept her roots and culture alive. After a couple of years of being in Canada regaining her footing she made sure we would visit Colombia on a yearly bases.

Despite the back and forth of my early childhood, I wouldn't want any part of it to change. I love feeling apart of two countries and two cultures. Now that I'm older there's is no need or want to go "back home" as home is in both places to me.

Before I tell you my story, I want to share a song called “Deslocado” by a Portuguese band named NAPA. The word deslocado means displaced. This song describes exactly how migration feels the sadness, the hope, and the feeling of not fully belonging anywhere.

My journey with migration started long before I actually left Venezuela. Even as a child, I felt curious about the world and like I wasn’t completely tied to one place. My parents used to take my brothers and me on trips, both inside Venezuela and abroad. I visited the U.S. and Panama when I was young, and those trips gave me a love for traveling. I realized that every place could offer new opportunities.

At the same time, I knew what was happening in my country. Venezuela is my home, and I will always be proud to be Venezuelan. But I also saw that the future I wanted would be hard to reach if I stayed there. That thought made me feel guilty, like I was betraying my country. But deep down, I knew I wanted to leave.

My dad and my aunt also had to leave Venezuela. They worked for the government, and when they refused to take part in corruption, they were threatened. In 2016, they escaped to Canada. Since then, my dad promised me that after high school, he would bring me there too. For me, Canada became a dream, a place of freedom, education, and new opportunities.

In 2021, I finally moved to Canada. I thought I would only feel joy, because this was the dream I had since I was twelve. But instead, I felt sad. I realized it was because I had left behind more than a country. I had left behind family, memories, and pieces of myself.

Now, I don’t have immediate family in Venezuela anymore. I don't miss Venezuela; what I really miss are the memories, the people, and the moments that made it feel like home. Today, I am proud to call Canada my home. But I don’t feel fully Canadian. And since I left Venezuela when I was young, I don’t feel fully connected to Venezuela either.

That is what migration is to me. You belong to two places, yet not fully to either. You carry both in your heart, but you are never complete in one alone.

That is why “Deslocado” means so much to me. Like the song says, I feel displaced. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Because in being displaced, I’ve learned that home is not only where you are, it’s the journey you take.

Adjusting to my new life here was incredibly hard. I didn’t know English, and although my parents came with me at first, they had to return to Venezuela after three months. Saying goodbye to my family and friends in Venezuela, and then again to my parents in Canada, was heartbreaking. Still, migration pushed me to grow, to adapt, and to discover strength I didn’t know I had. I’m proud of the person I’ve become and of the life I’ve built in this country, which I now call home.

Since leaving Venezuela, I haven’t returned. Most of my close friends and family have also left, so it feels like there’s little reason to go back. Even so, Venezuela will always be the place where my story began. I belong to Italy, Venezuela, and Canada—and yet sometimes it feels like I am not fully from any of them. In Canada, my friends became my family. In Italy, I visit my parents and brother every year. In Venezuela, I carry only memories of the people and life I once had.

When people ask me “Where are you from?” it’s never a simple answer. Many wonder why I came to Canada instead of Italy, where I hold citizenship and know the language. The truth is, I originally came here to study English, but over time, I realized it was meant to be—I was meant to build a life here.

Now, with my friends and family spread across the world, I’ve learned that “home” isn’t always a country. It can be people, food, traditions, or even small moments that make us feel like we belong. Plus, it has helped me visit places I had never been before which is amazing since I love travelling!

For me, migration means carrying pieces of different places wherever I go. It’s the pain of leaving behind, but also the beauty of becoming more than one thing, of building new homes in unexpected places. It has taught me that belonging is not fixed to one location—it lives in connections, in resilience, and in the stories we carry with us.

My name is Ornina Jajo. I was born in Toronto, Canada and have lived here my whole life. My parents, however, are immigrants. They migrated to Canada 23 years ago from Iraq. Even though I was born here, I was able to reflect on their journey and feelings on immigrating from Iraq. Migration was more than a physical relocation; it meant leaving behind familiar places, loved ones, and cultural roots while adapting to a new society and way of life. Their sense of belonging became layered, as they worked to build a life in Canada while holding on to their Iraqi heritage through language, food, and family customs. Growing up, I have witnessed how their journey reflects both resilience and sacrifice, showing me that belonging is not fixed to one place, but rather created through the blending of past and present, and the ability to find home in more than one world.

In the picture I provided above, it's a photo of me and my family including some of my aunts, uncles and cousins, at the airport. This picture shows me with my family, including my aunts, uncles, and cousins, gathered at the airport to welcome my aunt who had just migrated from Iraq to Canada. The moment captured in this photo represents more than just a family reunion; it symbolizes the journey of migration and the importance of belonging. Just as my parents migrated from Iraq to Canada 23 years ago, my aunt’s arrival shows how migration continues to shape our family’s story. The airport became a space of connection between the past and the present, where memories of the homeland met the possibilities of a new life in Canada. It reflects how migration brings both challenges and joy, as loved ones are reunited and carry forward traditions, culture, and identity into a new place where belonging must be rebuilt.

My parents come from very different places and backgrounds. My mother was born in Braga, Portugal and moved to Canada at 15 with her supportive family, who provided her with a comfortable life. My father, however, was born in Portmore, Jamaica and came to Canada at 19 with only his younger brother. Growing up in a single-parent household, he faced many hardships and had to take on responsibilities at a young age. Despite these differences, my parents built a life together and raised a close-knit family.

One lasting effect of migration has been the absence of extended family. My grandparents returned to Portugal after retirement, and aside from my mother’s sister, it is just my parents, siblings, and me in Canada. Without cousins, uncles, or grandparents nearby, we rely heavily on each other, which has made us very close but also means we carry many challenges on our own.

Last year, my father was sent back to Jamaica after being unable to secure citizenship despite many years in Canada. Migration is a difficult process, often filled with both opportunities and struggles. My brother, who is also my best friend, chose to return with him because he couldn’t bear to be apart. He has never liked taking photos, so this picture of us is one of the few I have, and it carries a lot of meaning. Overall, being separated from my father and brother has been very difficult, and although Canada is my home, it feels less like one each day with my family torn apart. However, if my parents had never chosen to immigrate to Canada, we wouldn’t be who we are today. For that, I am grateful, and it is what makes migration such a beautiful thing. 

I am in Ireland right now as I write this. As an adult, I now realize how lucky I am to have these two distinct and incredible cultures as a part of me, both of them with their own uniqueness and beauty.

To me migration isn't about what you left behind but what you are bringing to your new beginnings. Belongingness is what you create for yourself. I carry both Ireland and Canada in me and I hope to continue building a life that honours both.

I just wanted to also thank everyone else who shared a part of their incredible journey, because it’s not easy to share :)

Although my mom was technically the only sibling born in Canada, she spent her first 16 years in Greece before returning here with her family. Over time, my grandfather was able to open his own construction company, which became successful and is still run today by my uncle.

My mom had once dreamed of becoming a police officer, but cultural expectations and strict parenting kept her from pursuing that path. She tried college for IT but had to drop out to continue helping her family financially, often working multiple jobs, even cash jobs like cleaning. Later, when she met my dad, he helped her learn English more fluently, including the slang and nuances, and eventually she built a career in real estate. Later, she had my brother and me.

To me, my mom is a role model. She sacrificed so much to support her family and build a life here in Canada. Even now, most of my extended family still lives in Greece, while only a few remain here in Canada. Her story has shown me what resilience looks like, and how migration is not just about movement, but about sacrifice, perseverance, and creating opportunities for the next generation.

For me, migration goes beyond just crossing borders; it’s about bringing culture, stories, and identity from one place to another while figuring out how to fit in a new setting. I often feel like I’m carrying both Canada and Ghana within me, and this dual identity has shown me that home can be more than one place at a time.

Because of my family's migration, I have been able to experience opportunities that may not have been possible for me otherwise, such as a better education system, security, and the ability to dream bigger for my future. It has also shaped the way I see myself, as someone who carries the history and traditions of my family while also adapting to new ways of life in Canada. Migration, for me, means building a bridge between where we came from and where we are now, honouring the sacrifices that were made while embracing the chance to create something bigger and better. It is a reminder that every challenge that we faced in starting over has given me the foundation to pursue more, and for that, migration will always symbolize strength, sacrifice and most of all, hope.

When I think about migration and belonging, the first thing I think of is the story of my family before me. I was born in Canada in 2005, but my parents lived in Iran for most of their lives. They immigrated from Iran to Canada in 1999 when my brother was only 1 and I, obviously, was not born yet.

Growing up in Canada I always felt like this was home because it's all I have ever really known, but I carry pieces of Iran with me through my family's stories, food, and traditions. It's like I obtain a connection to a place I have never even seen; always a part of me.

Most of my extended family stayed in Iran while few immigrated to Germany, so visits there have become really meaningful. The most recent time I had visited was the day after my high school graduation in 2023, where I travelled alone and stayed with them for roughly a month. Being surrounded by family made me realize how migration can, of course, create such great distances between people but can also bring people closer together; absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Another memory that stands out to me is when I went to Turkey to meet my relatives for the first time when I was only 7 years old -- my grandmothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins. They travelled from Iran to turkey so we could all be together, and although I may not have realized this when I was younger, I now see how eye-opening that experience really was. Even though we didn't share the same experiences in the same country, the connection felt natural, lie we had known each other all along. That trip really showed me how family can cross borders but love finds a way despite distance.

For me, belonging does not feel tied to one single country, rather it's about how regardless of the distance and difference in cultural knowledge, you can still feel as one.

Although Canada has been my home since the day I was born, truthfully, I felt more at home in Germany sitting with my uncle hearing the stories about his younger self in Iran, than I do a lot of the time right here where my home actually is.

What keeps me grounded most are the stories I've hard -- my dad sharing memories of his childhood, or his mother's voice carrying those stories in a different way. The same is true with my grandmother on my mom's side. Even after their passing, those stories keep them alive through me -- preserving history from one generation to the next.

My name is Helia and I was born in Iran.

Moving to Canada alone at sixteen completely changed my life. Back home, I often felt trapped because the government forced religion on us, and as a girl I had to cover up, even though inside I just wanted freedom. I always questioned politics and authority, because I saw how unfair and suffocating things were, and how so many brilliant people in Iran had their talents wasted under a regime that feels like the devil in disguise. That pushed me to leave, even though I was just a teenager.

Coming to Canada was not easy. Saying goodbye at the airport was one of the hardest moments of my life, because deep down I knew that would be the last time I got to see my mom, or at least for a very long time. I haven’t seen my parents or my brother since, and I miss them every single day, but their place in my heart gives me strength.

I finished high school in Vancouver, then moved to Toronto for university, and even that change between cities was hard. I had to find jobs on my own with no experience, pay rent, move from place to place, and basically figure out how to survive while still keeping up with school. It forced me to grow up fast and become even more independent than I already was. Canada being a multicultural country gave me opportunities to rebuild and belong, but it took sacrifice, loneliness, and a lot of resilience to get here. Now Toronto feels like home, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

For me, migration has been more than moving from one country to another. It’s been about survival, chasing my dreams, and proving to myself and my family that I can succeed no matter how hard the road is.

I’m also very pleased to learn about other people’s journeys, because it reminds me that I’m not alone in this. Hearing their experiences gives me comfort and strength to keep going.

My parents moved here due to political unrest in their home country. They came hoping for a better future, not just for themselves, but for me. They brought their language, culture, and values with them. I was born and raised here, but I’ve always felt connected to both places. At home, I hear a different language, eat food that reminds me of home, and celebrate holidays that many of my classmates have never heard of. At school and outside, I navigate a different culture that I belong to, but that doesn’t always understand my background.

Immigration, to me, isn’t just about crossing borders. It’s about carrying stories. My parents carried dreams and sacrifices. I carry the pressure to succeed, but also the privilege of choice something they didn’t always have.

Sometimes I feel like I’m walking a tightrope trying not to lose my roots while learning how to fly in this new space. But over time, I’ve realized that I don’t have to choose one identity over the other. I am both. My mother often tells me that this is because I am in the third culture I need to navigate both the Canadian and African cultures.

To me, immigration means strength, resilience, and possibility. It means honoring where you came from while creating something new. It’s not always easy though but it’s powerful.

The Glengoffe Post Office reminds me of home. Even though I didn’t spend a lot of time inside it, it’s a landmark tied to so many moments of my childhood. My very first memory of it is faint, I lived in a house just behind the building as a small child. I don’t remember much, but I’ve been told how I loved to run out and greet new people passing through every day. Later, when we moved further into the city, I still passed the post office often, on Sundays on the way to church, or during summers spent with family and friends. Every time I saw it on the road, I knew I was close to the people I loved. When we eventually moved back to the community, that building became even more special. After long days at school, spotting the post office meant I was almost home.

That feeling has never left me. Even now, after living in Canada for years, I still get the same sense of comfort when I return to Jamaica. After the long plane ride and the two-hour drive from the airport, the sight of the Glengoffe Post Office makes everything worth it. I know that just five minutes up the street is my maternal grandmother and uncle, and five minutes more brings me to my paternal grandmother and all my aunts and uncles. That little stretch of road, with the post office at its heart, will always be home because that’s where I feel the most love in the world.

And even here in Canada, whenever I think of that post office, it brings me a quiet sense of peace reminding me that no matter how far I am, home and love are never too far away.

When I think of migration, I picture moving for a better life. For my family, that meant leaving behind the racism we dealt with and seeking out the diversity and equality which we believed Canada could offer. To this day, I remember the raw emotions we all felt the day we received our citizenship- joy, relief, a sense that our lives had changed forever. At the time, I was old enough to notice the changes happening around me, but too young to fully grasp or understand the sacrifices it took for my parents to start over in a new foreign country. Looking back now, I realize how much courage and strength it must have taken them to give up the life they believed we deserved.

This certificate holds so much significance to me. It represents security, belonging, and a fresh start. It also reminds me of the journey my family and I have taken, as well as all the opportunities which have opened up from that moment on. This year is especially meaningful because it marks ten years, a whole decade of being Canadian. Reaching this milestone makes me reflect not only on how far I’ve come, but also the growth and belonging we’ve built over the past years.

That makes me a 2nd generation immigrant. I’ve grown up my whole hearing stories about what life was like back home. My dad would drink his Albanian beer and tell me how they have small towns andtight communities. My parents came here with very little, just hoping to build something better. Even though I didn’t experience that move and struggle myself, I see how it shaped the way they live. It's made me always grounded, always grateful, and always resourceful. It also put in a sense of hustle into my life. My parents worked 3 jobs so I didn't feel like less than anyone, so I had the nicest things, and so I'd never be excluded. Seeing these sacrifices made me want to improve my life and achieve everything I can.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living in two versions of home at once. Albania is part of me through family and culture but Canada is the place where I’ve made my own story. I hear a lot about life back there, but my life here is the one I'm building. I value both sides and I always long for a sense of community.

I am looking forward to reading everyone's responses and learning more about the course.