I get teary-eyed when I see people protesting for immigrant rights. It’s not just empathy, it’s recognition. Every chant, every placard, every raised fist feels like an embrace meant for me. It feels like they’re fighting for my place in a world that sometimes forgets how hard it is to begin again, to rebuild a life on foreign soil while carrying the ghost of another home in your chest. When I see them march, I feel seen. I feel like my neighbors love me not because they have