In the winter of her second year in the United States, Jerida stood by the apartment window watching snow fall over the streets below. The city was alive — yellow taxis moving through traffic, strangers hurrying with coffee cups in their hands, lights glowing from distant buildings. Yet inside her apartment, the silence felt heavy.
When she had first relocated, everything had seemed exciting. New opportunities. New places. New people. She had imagined a life filled with adventure and growth. She sent photos back home of tall buildings and beautiful parks, telling everyone she was adjusting well.
But life had changed in ways she had not expected.
Back home, mornings had started with familiar voices — family conversations, neighbors greeting one another, laughter coming from nearby houses. In America, many days began with silence. People smiled politely but hurried on with their own lives. Work occupied most of her hours, and after long days she returned to an apartment where no one asked, “How was your day?”
The loneliness arrived slowly, almost unnoticed.
At first, it was small things. Eating dinner alone. Watching her phone and waiting for messages from Kenya. Missing celebrations because of time differences. Then she started feeling as though the world was moving around her while she stood still.
Some evenings she sat on her couch staring at old photographs on her phone. Weddings. Family gatherings. Friends laughing together. She missed sounds she had once ignored — children playing outside, busy Kenyan streets, even random conversations in matatus.
She wondered whether anyone around her noticed that beneath her calm smile, she felt tired in a way sleep could not fix.
One Saturday morning, after another long week of feeling disconnected, she walked into a small community center she had passed many times before. People from different countries were gathered there, talking and sharing tea. Someone waved her over and asked where she was from.
“Kenya,” she replied.
For the first time in months, the conversation flowed naturally.
She laughed.
Not the polite laugh she used during work meetings, but a real one.
Jerida began realizing that loneliness did not always disappear in one moment. Sometimes it changed little by little — through familiar voices, friendships, and finding spaces where people knew your name. She once wrote on her instagram story
Huku America niko na kutu,kazi ni kunyonga tu kila siku
As spring slowly replaced winter, she still missed home. She still had difficult days. But now when she looked out of her apartment window, the city no longer felt like a place filled only with strangers.
It felt like a place where she was slowly learning how to belong.
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