I'm the child of immigrants, and there was always a garage

“I’m the child of immigrants, and there was always a garage filled with food, just in case, and you kept money under the mattress. You were always prepared, because you couldn’t trust that you were being taken care of. So that translated into my life into a lot of opportunity hoarding.” Thus spoke Samin Nosrat, and in her confession we hear not merely the story of one household, but the eternal story of exile, migration, and survival. For those who leave behind their homelands to begin anew, life becomes an exercise in vigilance. The heart remembers the instability of the past, and so the hands build safeguards for the future: food stored away, money hidden, opportunities seized and never relinquished.

The meaning of her words lies in the truth that scarcity shapes the soul. For the child of immigrants, nothing is guaranteed. Governments collapse, economies falter, neighbors turn hostile—these are the memories passed down in stories whispered at kitchen tables. Thus arises the instinct to guard, to prepare, to save, to never again be caught helpless. What for others may seem excessive—garages filled with food, money hidden under mattresses—is, for the children of survival, wisdom born of necessity. Trust cannot be given lightly when history has taught otherwise.

The ancients knew this law. After the Israelites fled Egypt, they wandered in the wilderness, and though manna rained from heaven, still they gathered more than they needed, fearing tomorrow might fail them. Their hands clutched at bread, even when told to take only enough for the day. It was not greed but memory—the memory of hunger, of chains, of years when tomorrow brought nothing. So too do the children of immigrants live: with the weight of their parents’ past pressing into their present, shaping their instincts to hold, to guard, to hoard.

History gives us many mirrors. Consider the Great Depression in America. Families who lived through those years of hunger never forgot. Even when prosperity returned, they stored jars of food, saved scraps of string, folded and refolded paper bags. To their children, it seemed strange; to them, it was survival’s discipline. Likewise, Nosrat’s words remind us that the immigrant carries this vigilance across oceans and generations. It is not paranoia but memory—etched into the bones, whispered into the dreams, passed from parent to child.

Yet Nosrat also admits the shadow side: opportunity hoarding. The same vigilance that protects can also restrict. To seize every chance, to cling tightly, to fear letting go—this can become a burden. What once was survival can transform into anxiety, mistrust, or the inability to rest. Thus, her words are both understanding and warning: honor the wisdom of preparedness, but do not let it become a prison. The garage of food may comfort, but it must not choke the spirit.

The lesson for us is both noble and challenging. From the immigrant we learn resilience, preparation, and the discipline of never taking tomorrow for granted. These are virtues the complacent forget. Yet we must also learn balance. Preparation should not become fear, and vigilance should not become hoarding. Life demands not only caution but also generosity, not only holding but also releasing. To live well is to carry forward the strength of our ancestors’ struggles without being bound by their scars.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, remember this teaching: be prepared, but do not be paralyzed. Store wisely, but also share freely. Learn from the caution of those who came before you, but do not let fear steal the joy of abundance when it comes. Trust carefully, but learn to trust nonetheless, lest your life become an endless guarding. For the true wealth of the immigrant story is not only in the garage of food or the money under the mattress, but in the courage to build anew, the resilience to endure, and the generosity to create a future freer than the past.