Falling leaves, rising dreams

WHEN I first landed in Buffalo last year, the United States stretched before me like a book whose pages I had yet to turn. Everything felt enormous — the sky, the streets, the silence. I had left home with two suitcases, a restless heart and a head full of questions. They say the beginning is the most important part of your work, but beginnings are rarely easy. Mine came with anxiety and wonder: how do you build a life in a place that does not yet know your name?

Autumn was my first chapter. Back home, ‘fall’ was just a word in novels, but here it was alive, trees turned gold and crimson, leaves crunching underfoot, the air crisp with nostalgia and possibility. In my bare apartment, I realised that home isn’t found; it’s built, with taped photos, shared laughter and late-night coffee after long days. That fall also meant school, new classes, nervous smiles and group projects that turned strangers into friends. We don’t grow when things are easy. We grow when we face challenges — that became my quiet prayer as assignments piled up and life tested me.

Then winter arrived, abrupt and unapologetic. Buffalo’s cold doesn’t just greet you, it engulfs you. Snow blanketed everything in silence, beautiful at first, then harsh as it froze into ice. Walking to class felt like a battle. Yet inside classrooms and libraries, warmth bloomed, friends sharing notes, pizzas and small breakdowns before midterms. Between part-time shifts and study hours, I learned discipline the hard way. Some days exhaustion whispered, “Is it worth it?” But as Kahlil Gibran wrote, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.” Winter became my teacher in resilience, reminding me that even in stillness, growth happens quietly.

By spring, I could feel myself changing with the world outside. Trees, once skeletal, bloomed with stubborn joy, and I, too, felt something reawaken. The heaviness of winter lifted, replaced by laughter in classrooms and walks under cherry blossoms. Exams came and went, not without struggle, but with pride. Friendship — the kind born in late-night study sessions — steadied me when everything else felt uncertain.

Summer arrived like a long-awaited exhale. The days stretched, the light softened and graduation loomed, the milestone I had carried in my heart since boarding that plane. When the moment came, cap and gown in place, I stood with pride words couldn’t capture. It wasn’t just a degree. It was proof of every shift, every tear, every quiet courage that carried me forward.

And now, as the leaves turn golden again, I realise I’ve come full circle. A year of firsts, of struggles, of quiet triumphs. This city, once foreign, now feels stitched with pieces of me — laughter, friendships, prayers before interviews and walks under trees that changed as I did.

I began as a girl stepping into the unknown, my heart full of fear. I stand now, not fully settled, not entirely certain, but undeniably changed, stronger, softer, braver. And as the wind scatters golden leaves around me, I know this story is still being written.