For generations, the American dream has symbolized opportunity, stability, and success. My own great-grandfather believed in it when he arrived at Ellis Island in 1912 with little more than a suitcase and his savings. He worked industrial jobs in Philadelphia, saved diligently, and eventually returned to Ireland with enough money to buy a small business — securing a better life for his family.
More than a century later, at 24, I too arrived in America with hope and ambition. But after three years of studying and working in the US, I made the painful decision to leave. The dream that once inspired my family had become impossible to hold onto — not because I stopped believing in it, but because America itself no longer seemed to.
The Promise of Education
For much of my life, I dreamed of studying at an American university. The names Harvard, Columbia, and Stanford carried a soft power around the world — synonymous with excellence, ambition, and global leadership.
In 2022, my dream came true when I was accepted into Columbia University’s MPA program. I still remember the moment: confetti filled the screen, Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” blared in my earphones, and I felt as though I’d stepped into history.
At Columbia, I learned not only about economics and public policy but also about justice, vulnerability, and resilience. My peers included activists, reformers, and advocates — people fighting for women’s rights in Afghanistan, for gender equity in the US Army, and for stronger protections for marginalized groups. The experience was inspiring, transformative, and deeply human.
The Harsh Reality After Graduation
Like many international students, I expected to stay and work in the US after graduation. I dreamed of joining USAID as an economist. A verbal offer made me feel secure — but when it suddenly fell through, my life was upended.
I had already activated my OPT visa, which gave me just 60 days to secure new employment or leave the country. Panic set in.
A year later, many of my peers — especially fellow international graduates — are still unemployed or underemployed. Some have taken jobs far below their skill level simply to stay in the country and maintain visa status. Others have been forced into temporary positions, barely scraping by.
The American dream, for us, became survival: finding any job, at any pay, just to cling to the possibility of staying.
A Generation Under Pressure
This is not just my story. For Gen Z, the numbers tell a grim truth:
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Four in ten 18- to 29-year-olds in the US say they are barely getting by financially.
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Only 39% believe the American dream is still attainable, the lowest of any generation.
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Rising housing costs, healthcare expenses, and living costs have redefined what “stability” looks like.
What was once a story of upward mobility has become one of constant economic strain. For international students, the precariousness is even sharper, entangled in visa deadlines, job insecurity, and the constant threat of deportation.
The Breaking Point
By mid-2025, I had secured a role at a nonprofit in Washington, D.C., and planned to extend my visa. But the weight of uncertainty, combined with watching friends lose their status or face deportation, became too much.
I decided to leave.
Walking away from my closest friends, a job I loved, and the life I had built was heartbreaking. My first friend in grad school — once resolute about staying in New York — had already left. Others followed quietly, without fanfare.
“All these dreams we had died,” my friend Claire told me as we hugged goodbye.
Looking Back on What I Left Behind
From snowy valleys in Vermont to hiking the Smoky Mountains and sheltering from tornadoes in Savannah, I carry vivid memories of America’s landscapes and friendships. Yet I also carry the weight of its failures — of watching the most vulnerable suffer under systems that promised opportunity but delivered fear and precarity.
Now, living in London, I have found stability. I’ve started a new job and am writing a book about how AI, gender, and emotions are reshaping economic life. Still, I feel as though a piece of me remains in the US.
I think often of friends still trapped in immigration limbo — a classmate left stateless when his asylum application was voided, another afraid to leave for fear of being detained on return.
The century of the American dream, for many of us, feels over.
A Dream Deferred
I want to believe in the promise of America — the nation that delivers the first bag of grain to conflict zones, the one that has long drawn people like my great-grandfather with its vision of hope.
But the truth is this: in 2025, the American dream has become more fragile than ever. For international students, immigrants, and even many young Americans, the cost of chasing it is too high, and the return too uncertain.
I left to preserve myself, to escape the constant fear and disappointment. But I’ll never stop hoping that one day, the dream my great-grandfather pursued — and that I briefly touched — might once again feel real.
