In July 2024, I packed my life into suitcases and boarded a flight from India to Canada. I left behind the familiar—the corridors of Panjab University where I had studied and later taught, the vibrant discussions with students as an Assistant Professor of English Literature, the warm embrace of family and friends. What I carried with me was both tangible and intangible: my books, my degrees, my years of teaching, but also my love for words and a determination to find my place in a new land.
The transition was not smooth. Landing in Surrey meant starting from the beginning in many ways. I had to navigate a new education system, unfamiliar cultural codes, and the quiet loneliness that often comes with immigration. For someone who had always been rooted in community and academia, the silence felt heavy at first. But within that silence, poetry became my voice, my anchor, and my bridge.
My book, SPECTATOR: Literary Discourses with Aestheticism, written through years of reflection, became even more meaningful in this new chapter of life. In 2025, when it received the Literary Titan Award, it felt like a recognition not only of my writing but of my journey—of finding beauty in chaos, of embracing transformation, and of forgiving oneself for the fears and uncertainties that migration often brings. The themes of the book—resilience, conflict, hope—were not just literary; they were lived.
Soon after arriving, I was humbled to join the Board of Directors of the Canadian Authors Association (CAA). This role gave me an opportunity to serve beyond myself, to shape spaces where diverse and emerging voices could be heard, and to advocate for inclusivity in Canada’s literary community. For me, this appointment was more than a professional milestone—it was a symbol of belonging, of being trusted to contribute to a national platform even as a newcomer.
At the same time, I embraced my role as an educator in Surrey. Standing in front of a classroom full of students from multicultural backgrounds, I often see reflections of my own story—the hesitation of navigating identity, the desire to belong, the hope to be understood. Teaching here is not just about literature; it is about showing students that their voices matter, their stories hold power, and their differences are strengths. Each workshop, poetry reading, or classroom discussion I lead feels like a small step in building bridges across cultures.
Immigration, for me, has been about breaking barriers—both internal and external. The internal ones whisper doubt: Will I belong? Will my voice be heard? The external ones are the systems, institutions, and perceptions that sometimes make it harder for immigrants, especially women of colour, to be recognized for their abilities. But each barrier has also become an opportunity. Each challenge has reminded me why I chose words as my path: because words connect, heal, and transform.
My immigrant story is not just about my own survival or success—it is about paving pathways for others. Through my poetry, my leadership with the Canadian Authors Association, and my role as an educator, I strive to open doors for voices that may feel silenced. I believe that every barrier crossed becomes a bridge for someone else to walk upon.
Today, as I reflect on this journey, I see not just a story of displacement, but a story of resilience and renewal. I see a life carried forward by literature, community, and the courage to begin again. Canada has given me a new stage, and in return, I hope to give back stories, lessons, and spaces where others can find their voice.
This is my immigrant journey: one of chaos and beauty, silence and song, barriers and bridges—woven together by the enduring power of words.
