I once had a friend who looked me straight in the eye and said, “I have zero morals.” Then he added something even more chilling: “I am in my third life. I have resurrected twice.”
He didn’t say it jokingly. He said it like a man who had buried parts of himself and was now walking around in a borrowed version of his own body.
That conversation has never left me. It is the reason I gently, but firmly, discourage people who tell me they are considering illegal means to reach the United States. Not because I don’t understand the desperation. Not because I don’t know the pressure of family expectations, economic hardship, or the promise of a better future. I understand all of that. But I also understand something many people never talk about: the long-term internal cost.
On the outside, arriving in the United States looks like victory. You made it. You crossed the border. You overstayed the visa. You survived the journey. You send pictures home. You smile for social media. But inside, something else may be happening.
I have seen it.
Some people come on a visitor’s visa and decide not to return home. On paper, it looks like a smart move. Stay. Hustle. Adjust your status later if possible. But there is an invisible transaction that takes place. A quiet negotiation with your conscience. You start to live in fear — of discovery, of deportation, of any knock at the door. You begin to avoid spaces. You measure every move. Slowly, your world shrinks. And sometimes, so does your soul.
Whenever I think about this, I remember Ndegwa, the haunting character in Sham Love by David Waithera. Ndegwa is not just a man navigating life abroad. He is a man unraveling. A man whose choices disconnect him from himself. He represents more than immigration struggles — he represents internal exile.
You can be physically present in America and spiritually absent from yourself. “You” is not just your body. “You” is your inner engine — your moral compass, your sense of identity, your peace. It is the voice that tells you who you are when no one else is watching. When that voice is silenced long enough, something dies.
My friend who said he was in his third life understood this. The first life was the hopeful young man with principles. The second life was the survivor who compromised to get ahead. The third life was the hardened version who no longer wanted to feel the conflict between who he was and what he had done. So he declared he had “zero morals.” It was easier that way. But it was also tragic.
When I meet immigrants who are chronically angry, discouraged, defensive, or emotionally numb, I try not to judge. Instead, I quietly ask: What did it cost you to get here? What did you have to silence? What did you have to justify? What part of yourself did you bury along the way?
This is the cost we rarely discuss in immigrant circles. We talk about money, paperwork, remittances, status, green cards, and citizenship. We do not talk about the erosion of self. We do not talk about the sleepless nights, the paranoia, the quiet shame, the identity fragmentation. And yet, that may be the heaviest price of all.
I am not saying that everyone who overstays a visa or crosses borders unlawfully loses themselves. Human beings are resilient. Many rebuild. Many restore their sense of integrity in new ways. But the risk is real. The internal fracture is real.
The United States is a land of opportunity, yes. But no opportunity is worth the permanent loss of your inner voice. Because when that voice is gone, when your conscience is numbed, when you declare you have “zero morals,” you may still be breathing — but you are no longer fully alive.
That is why I caution people: don’t only calculate the financial cost of your journey. Calculate the moral and psychological cost. Ask yourself whether the version of you that arrives will still recognize the version of you that left home.
It is possible to reach America and lose yourself on the way. And if that happens, the journey was more expensive than you ever imagined.
He didn’t say it jokingly. He said it like a man who had buried parts of himself and was now walking around in a borrowed version of his own body.
That conversation has never left me. It is the reason I gently, but firmly, discourage people who tell me they are considering illegal means to reach the United States. Not because I don’t understand the desperation. Not because I don’t know the pressure of family expectations, economic hardship, or the promise of a better future. I understand all of that. But I also understand something many people never talk about: the long-term internal cost.
On the outside, arriving in the United States looks like victory. You made it. You crossed the border. You overstayed the visa. You survived the journey. You send pictures home. You smile for social media. But inside, something else may be happening.
I have seen it.
Some people come on a visitor’s visa and decide not to return home. On paper, it looks like a smart move. Stay. Hustle. Adjust your status later if possible. But there is an invisible transaction that takes place. A quiet negotiation with your conscience. You start to live in fear — of discovery, of deportation, of any knock at the door. You begin to avoid spaces. You measure every move. Slowly, your world shrinks. And sometimes, so does your soul.
Whenever I think about this, I remember Ndegwa, the haunting character in Sham Love by David Waithera. Ndegwa is not just a man navigating life abroad. He is a man unraveling. A man whose choices disconnect him from himself. He represents more than immigration struggles — he represents internal exile.
You can be physically present in America and spiritually absent from yourself. “You” is not just your body. “You” is your inner engine — your moral compass, your sense of identity, your peace. It is the voice that tells you who you are when no one else is watching. When that voice is silenced long enough, something dies.
My friend who said he was in his third life understood this. The first life was the hopeful young man with principles. The second life was the survivor who compromised to get ahead. The third life was the hardened version who no longer wanted to feel the conflict between who he was and what he had done. So he declared he had “zero morals.” It was easier that way. But it was also tragic.
When I meet immigrants who are chronically angry, discouraged, defensive, or emotionally numb, I try not to judge. Instead, I quietly ask: What did it cost you to get here? What did you have to silence? What did you have to justify? What part of yourself did you bury along the way?
This is the cost we rarely discuss in immigrant circles. We talk about money, paperwork, remittances, status, green cards, and citizenship. We do not talk about the erosion of self. We do not talk about the sleepless nights, the paranoia, the quiet shame, the identity fragmentation. And yet, that may be the heaviest price of all.
I am not saying that everyone who overstays a visa or crosses borders unlawfully loses themselves. Human beings are resilient. Many rebuild. Many restore their sense of integrity in new ways. But the risk is real. The internal fracture is real.
The United States is a land of opportunity, yes. But no opportunity is worth the permanent loss of your inner voice. Because when that voice is gone, when your conscience is numbed, when you declare you have “zero morals,” you may still be breathing — but you are no longer fully alive.
That is why I caution people: don’t only calculate the financial cost of your journey. Calculate the moral and psychological cost. Ask yourself whether the version of you that arrives will still recognize the version of you that left home.
It is possible to reach America and lose yourself on the way. And if that happens, the journey was more expensive than you ever imagined.
