It has been six weeks since my son and I uprooted our lives and moved abroad, back to my home country. I had lived in the United States since I was thirteen, more than two decades of my life, so this does not feel like returning home to something familiar. Everything is different, and nothing feels the same.

Leaving my husband and my teenage son behind was the hardest decision I have ever had to make. In the weeks before I left, there were many nights when I cried out, asking God why. With tears streaming down my face I would shout into the darkness, wondering if I had not already been through enough. The truth is, I had no choice. With so many green card holders being detained in traumatic conditions, I had to leave before things grew even worse, and they did.

My younger son does not understand. He is just a boy who longs for his friends and the life that felt safe and familiar. Taking him with me was not easy, but leaving him behind would have cut him deeper. He is attached to me, and I am all he has right now.

The weight of loneliness and despair presses heavily on my heart some days. There are moments when the thought crosses my mind that it would be easier to quiet the pain with a drink. But I know where that road leads, and it is one of destruction. My son needs me sober, steady, and present. So I choose prayer instead.

I pray for comfort. I pray for my family. I pray for direction. Even when I feel alone, I know God is near. I have to believe His plans are greater than mine, and I have to place my trust in Him.