December 2002 it was the year of White Christmas in Maryland, my first week in the USA.

I arrived in the U.S. with my family, with a green card and a degree in computer engineering, still incomplete.

The dream was clear: finish school, land a job in my field, and build a life that made sense to me.

But the dream collided with reality fast.

Post-9/11, the job market had shrunk. Recession was setting in. And there I was — a young woman with no U.S. work experience and a degree from India.

The American system didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet.

So, I did what so many immigrants have done before me.
I started where I could. – McDonald’s.

It was humbling, exhausting, and eye-opening. But I showed up every day. And eventually, I moved into an office job. $10/hour. No benefits. No paid overtime. A job where I was routinely asked to stay late, sometimes until 3 a.m., because deadlines mattered more than people. I wasn’t rewarded for it. No bonus. No raise. Just quiet expectations and a pat on the back – if that.

The company was owned by someone from my community, someone my father respected and trusted. Coming from a background where “a steady job” was the goal, my dad encouraged me to stay. He didn’t love the arrangement either, but he believed it was the right move for stability.

And I tried to believe that, too.

But something inside me kept whispering: This isn’t right.

I was doing the work of multiple people, being paid far less than male colleagues with less experience and fewer responsibilities. When I asked why, the answer was short and sharp: You get what you negotiate.

Only no one had ever taught me how to negotiate. I was raised to work hard, be humble, and wait to be recognized. That moment was the first of many that taught me: no one is coming to rescue you.

Home life was no less intense. I lived with my parents and brother. My father had to start from scratch professionally. My brother juggled classes and odd jobs. My mother was the engine, feeding four adults, managing the household, and creating warmth with very little.

And me? I had to grow up fast. Back home, I would rely on my parents for every decision. Here in the U.S., I had to step up. Whether it was setting up bank accounts, navigating health insurance, or learning the unspoken rules of American life, I was the one leading.

Even the language I knew, English, felt unfamiliar in everyday use. The American slang, accents, and cultural references all took time to absorb. I had studied in English, sure. But living in it, being understood in it, that was another game.

Still, I adapted.

And quietly, beneath all the chaos, I started building my foundation.

I bought a townhouse.
Paid off my car.
Earned my master’s degree.
Cleared every cent of student debt.
All while working thankless jobs and carrying invisible weight.

Even in the bleakness of that workplace, there were moments of connection. Our team lunch breaks were a genuine highlight — everyone gathering to eat, laugh, and share stories. The Americans at work were warm and curious about our food, our culture. At company parties, we’d dance garba, and they’d jump in with goofy enthusiasm. For a few hours, we weren’t just coworkers — we were human together.

Love?
Well, that’s a chapter too.

I wanted to date. To choose someone after getting to know them. But the idea of marrying outside the community was gently and sometimes not-so-gently discouraged. And the options within my community? Limited.

So when I met someone from India who seemed ideal on paper, I thought I’d fallen in love. My dad wasn’t thrilled, but since he was from our community, it checked enough boxes. Everyone looked the other way when the red flags appeared, including me. I was tired. I wanted something to work.

And if he seemed like the best of a short list? That was enough… at the time.

It’s only now I realize: I wasn’t choosing. I was settling.

But that would change.

This was my first five years in the U.S.

I didn’t come out swinging. I didn’t “crush it” or go viral.

I learned. I led. I rose quietly, but powerfully.

My Phoenix moment didn’t come with drama. It came with decisions. It came with long nights, heavier responsibilities, and invisible wins that no one clapped for.

And that’s how empires begin.

The story continues here: Leadership Isn’t Silence: The Fire That Gave Me My Voice