What My Journey Reveals About International Students in America
I did not leave home with a dramatic goodbye on my way to the United States.
There were no airport hugs, no family photos, and no one waiting at the gate. My parents — both lifelong public servants in India — could not accompany me. Not because they didn’t care, but because sometimes families hold their heartbreak quietly so their children can walk forward without hesitation.
I boarded my flight alone.
When I reached London, my connecting flight was delayed. I spent the night on the airport floor with $1,300 in my account — money meant to last until I found work in a country whose systems I did not yet understand. I was afraid. But I also knew I could not go back.
That moment is not unique to me. It is the unspoken starting point for thousands of international students who arrive in the United States every year carrying ambition, responsibility, and the weight of families who have invested everything in their success.
Survival Is an Unofficial Curriculum
My first job in America began at 6:00 a.m. at Starbucks. I arrived by 5:30 a.m. every morning, walking alone through snow-covered streets in Rochester’s winter darkness. I cooked every meal because buying take-out regularly was not an option. I worked before exams, between classes, and on days when exhaustion outweighed motivation.
International students learn quickly that the classroom is only part of the education. The rest is survival: navigating immigration rules, managing finances under work-hour limits, adapting to unfamiliar systems, and living with the constant awareness that one mistake can undo years of effort.
Some semesters, my grades reflected that reality. Not because I lacked ability, but because I did not have the luxury of being only a student. Many international students don’t. We are workers, students, immigrants, and emotional anchors for families across time zones — all at once.
Resilience is often romanticized. In practice, it looks like cooking meals at midnight, doing laundry at 2 a.m., editing assignments or work on the bus, and showing up the next day pretending you are fine.
Leadership Without a Safety Net
Despite financial pressure, I stepped into leadership roles at Simon Business School. I served as Vice President of Events and later President of the Accounting Society. I attended every event I could, even when I had not slept properly for days.
At one point, a peer told me I should not hold leadership positions; “that if people had a choice, they would never choose me”.
That night, I cried. And then I made a decision many international students quietly make: Instead of shrinking, I would outgrow every version of myself that other people found acceptable.
International students lead differently. We lead with responsibility because failure is never just emotional. It affects visas, families, futures. There is no safety net beneath us.
When One System Says You Belong and Another Says You Don’t
Just as my career began to stabilize, I encountered the contradiction that defines the international student experience.
One system told me I belonged.
I earned a STEM-designated degree. I entered public service. I began working with the New York State Department of Taxation & Finance in a role built on trust, accountability, and long-term investment. My supervisors valued my work. My responsibilities grew. I was treated as someone worth retaining.
And yet, another system told me I might not be allowed to stay.
While my employer recognized my contribution, the immigration framework surrounding STEM OPT reminded me how conditional that recognition was.
STEM OPT is a temporary extension of work authorization that allows certain international graduates in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics to remain employed in the United States for a limited period after completing their degrees. Eligibility does not guarantee continuity. Compliance does not ensure clarity. Even when you do everything “right,” the system can still pause your life, delay your plans, or quietly signal that your presence is provisional.
This is the paradox international students live with every day.
You can be qualified enough to be hired, but not secure enough to plan ahead. Trusted with responsibility, but not with permanence. Valued by one institution and questioned by another.
STEM OPT is often described as an opportunity. It is also a test of endurance. It asks international students to perform at the highest level while living with the constant awareness that approval, extension, or continuation can depend on factors far outside their control.
When one system says “you deserve to be here” and another says “you might not stay,” it creates a quiet psychological toll. You delay joy. You hesitate to celebrate milestones. You work harder, stay quieter, and hope excellence will eventually outweigh uncertainty.
Even ordinary questions begin to feel complicated. When asked about a five-year plan, many international students hesitate, not because they lack ambition, but because imagining a future requires stability the system does not always provide.
Many international students do not speak openly about this — not because it is insignificant, but because vulnerability feels risky when your status already is.
Choosing Purpose Over Prestige
During recruiting season, many of my peers celebrated offers from Big Four firms and high-profile legal and consulting roles. I received similar opportunities — roles that carried recognizable titles, higher immediate visibility, and clearer paths to prestige.
One of those opportunities was in fraud examination within medicine. Another came from the private sector, backed by a global name and a familiar promise of advancement.
I chose not to accept them, not because I lacked merit, but because I had stopped chasing prestige for validation. I was choosing purpose.
When I interviewed with New York State, I expected a routine panel. Instead, I encountered something rare: people who listened, not just to polished answers, but to lived experience, discipline, and perspective.
At the end of the interview, one of them said something I will never forget:
“We might not be the right fit for her. But for us, she is exactly what we need.”
That moment was not about me alone. It was proof that international students bring something essential to public service: resilience shaped by uncertainty, perspective shaped by displacement, and work ethic forged without guarantees.
Choosing that path meant walking away from certainty on paper in favor of work that felt honest — work shaped by accountability, public trust, and a commitment to systems that serve beyond the self.
This Is Bigger Than One Story
My journey is not exceptional. It is representative.
International students live with immigration pressure, financial strain, cultural disorientation, isolation, academic expectations layered with survival, and the constant fear of losing status. And yet, we contribute — to classrooms, research labs, student organizations, and public institutions — often while being asked to justify our presence repeatedly.
If this story resonates, it is because it mirrors thousands of others who wake up before sunrise, walk alone through winters — literal and metaphorical — and keep going quietly.
Why This Story Matters
I did not come to the United States to chase the American Dream.
I came to honor my family’s legacy of public service, discipline, and integrity.
If someone can arrive with $1,300, sleep on an airport floor, work before sunrise, lead on campus, and serve the State of New York, then the conversation about international students needs to change.
We are not temporary.
We are not fragile.
We are not here by accident.
We are here because we have more than survived a system that wasn’t designed for us.
And we are ready, not just to succeed, but to serve.
Dr. Mansi S. Rai is an alumna of the University of Rochester’s Simon Business School and works in public service in New York State. Her writing focuses on systems, equity, and the lived realities of international students.
