A Multispective Perspective
By Jennica Sadhwani & T.J. Scott
Part of The Collective collaborations
When we think of people walking across countries, we imagine defiance. Banners. Protests. Headlines.
But sometimes, people walk because motion is the only thing left.
Timothy’s story begins not with rage, but with quiet desperation. And the choice to move anyway.
1. “We’re Going to Have to Let You Go.”
Mid-December. Just before Christmas. I had just gotten off the phone with a friend in Texas who had helped me translate what the doctors were saying to my wife in Mexico. Our daughter, about a year old, had gotten sick. The doctors gave her penicillin, not knowing she was allergic. Her appendix had swollen. They almost missed it.
The language barrier was a wall between me and understanding. Between me and protecting my own family. That call haunted me. I was working all the time, barely making it. Covering bills for the home in the U.S., where my mother lived with me, while trying to send what little I could to help them in Mexico. But the numbers never added up.
And then came the words that ripped the floor out from under me: “I’m sorry. We’re going to have to let you go.”
2. Things You Don’t Say Out Loud
I pretended everything was okay. You get good at that, pretending. You smile when you’re supposed to. You say “I’m good” when someone asks how you're doing. But deep down, you’re unraveling.
I had nothing left to give. Nothing left to borrow. I couldn’t find a way out. I was buried under the weight of all that was going on. My daughter could have died before ever being able to meet her. That’s when an idea hit me. Not as a protest. Not as a dramatic gesture. But because I couldn’t sit still and wait for life to collapse on me. So I walked.
3. Steps Of Silence
I left from Virginia Beach, Virginia in February. By nightfall, I was lying on a frozen field in Suffolk, Virginia. Wheat, maybe. The flurries were light but biting. That was my first night sleeping outside.
I didn’t hitchhike. I didn’t even stick out my thumb. I had a MapQuest printout in my pocket and a daughter’s photo in the other. My plan was simple: walk until I reached her. People passed me like I was invisible. Hundreds of cars. Most didn’t even slow down. Police would sometimes pick me up and drop me off at the county line, not out of kindness, but to move me out of their jurisdiction. Fine by me. I was still moving.
4. The Border You Didn’t Cross Alone
I had never seen my daughter in person. Just photos. Crossing the border I had my American passport, but not the language to ask the right questions. I crossed thinking I was okay. Just a bus ride to Acapulco, driven by hope, my body running on fumes, my heart pounding in ways I couldn’t explain.
I had made a vow: I wouldn’t cut my hair until they could return to the U.S. with me. It was long and uncut by the time I arrived, a quiet act of hope. A symbol of believing that this journey might bring them back across the border one day.
5. The Irony of the Arrival
When I arrived into Acapulco, after days, weeks of exhaustion, I saw her. I held her. And I remember thinking: “This is what I was walking toward.” The weight of her body. The warmth. The reality that I didn’t have to imagine anymore. Real.
The irony wasn’t lost on me as an American, living undocumented, in a country others risk everything to leave. The border that had kept them from me—I crossed it to reach them.
Afterword by Jennica
Borders take many forms. Sometimes it’s a line on a map. Other times, it’s a hospital door. A layoff notice. A missed call. Timothy crossed all of them. Not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.
His story isn’t over. He’s still walking, just in different shoes now. Sometimes we think survival is about getting through the moment. But sometimes, it’s about choosing to walk straight into the unknown, because on the other side is a child waiting to be held.