Ugochi Guchy Kalu (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer
Immigration is often described as a journey toward opportunity, growth and a better future. For many, it is portrayed as a courageous leap into greener pastures, a chance to build a life that may not have been possible elsewhere. What is discussed far less often is the quiet cost of that journey: the pieces of ourselves we leave behind along the way.
As an immigrant to Canada, I expected many adjustments, and anticipated to be hit by a truckload of struggles and new thought patterns. What I did not anticipate was how much I would think about my identity.
Before moving to Canada, I had lived and worked in several African countries. Throughout my life, I had never once needed to think about my race. Not because race did not exist, but because everyone around me looked like me. My qualifications, experience, character and capabilities spoke for me. Race was simply not a category I had to consciously occupy.
One of my earliest surprises came when filling out forms and job applications. There it was: a box asking me to identify my race. “Black.”
I remember staring at the question, genuinely puzzled. What was the purpose of this information? Why was it relevant? What would happen after I checked that box? Who would see it? How would it be used?
I understood the explanation. Diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives were designed to ensure representation and protect historically marginalized groups. In theory, the intent was noble. Yet I could never fully silence the questions that surfaced each time I answered.
Was this information helping me or hurting me?
Was I contributing to a process designed to create fairness, or was I voluntarily handing over a marker that could quietly work against me?
If the goal was equal treatment, why weren’t my education, experience and qualifications enough?
With every rejection email that arrived during my job search, my mind wandered to the same uncomfortable place. Was I rejected because I wasn’t the best fit? Or had checking that “Black” box quietly removed me from consideration before anyone fully saw my capabilities?
Perhaps those fears were irrational, perhaps they were not. The truth is that uncertainty has a way of filling the gaps where transparency ends.
It didn’t help that I also carried another visible marker of difference: my name, “UGOCHI.”
My name tells a story, it carries history, culture, family and heritage. It is one of the few things I have no desire to alter, minimize or replace. Yet I became aware of the silent calculations people sometimes make when encountering a name they cannot easily pronounce or place.
For the first time in my life, I became conscious of characteristics I had never previously considered obstacles.
Canada proudly identifies itself as a multicultural society. In fact, multiculturalism was one of the qualities that attracted me to the country. It suggested a place where differences were not only tolerated, but celebrated. A place where people from diverse backgrounds could coexist without having to erase themselves. If everyone was encouraged to bring their authentic selves, why did it feel as though fitting in required so much editing? Slowly, and often without realizing it, parts of me began to change.
Some changes were obvious; others were pointed out by family and friends. Certain habits disappeared, certain ways of expressing myself softened, some aspects of my personality became more restrained while others were amplified.
I consciously adjusted my accent, learned to enunciate words differently, studied cultural references and jokes, learned city history and local knowledge, familiarized myself with social norms and professional expectations.
Indeed, every meaningful life transition demands some level of learning and unlearning. Immigration is no exception. To build a life in a new country, certain adaptations are necessary, but I often wonder about the long-term cost.
Over the years, I have consciously created lists of things to leave behind, habits, assumptions, fears and limitations that no longer serve me. Yet when I compare those lists to who I once was, it sometimes feels as though the identity I have left behind outweighs the identity I currently have.
Sometimes it feels as though I carry multiple identities simultaneously, each one emerging depending on who is asking, where I am and what environment I occupy. The immigrant, the professional, the African woman, the Canadian, the daughter, the outsider, the insider, the person I was, the person I am becoming.
As I continue this journey toward what many call a better life, I find myself returning to one persistent question: at what point do we evaluate whether the identities we sacrificed were worth the outcomes we achieved? How much adaptation is growth and how much becomes self-erasure?
I do not yet have the answers. Perhaps I am not supposed to. After all, my journey is still unfolding. What I do know is this: there are parts of my identity that remain entirely non-negotiable, which includes my sense of self, integrity, values and humanity. These qualities define me far more than race, nationality, accent, profession or social acceptance ever could.
Perhaps one of the biggest lessons in my journey is that the goal was never to preserve every version of who I once was, nor was it to abandon myself entirely in pursuit of belonging. The challenge is learning which identities can bend and which identities must remain firmly rooted, no matter where in the world I choose to call home.
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My name is Ugochi Guchy Kalu and my belief is that change will require continued commitment to structural reform, bias interruption, equitable policy, dismantling the patriarchy and a reset in global mindset that sees women’s leadership not as exceptional, but as expected.