Why I Study Refugee Trauma

UT seminar

Source: University of Texas at Austin

Have you ever wondered what it feels like to leave everything you know behind, with no more than the clothes on your back? For millions of refugees and immigrants around the world, this question isn’t hypothetical. It’s their everyday reality.

I study how trauma and forced migration impact people’s mental health. Right now, I’m focused on refugees—particularly Ukrainians affected by the 2022 Russian invasion—and the mental health crisis they face in the United States. As I study this issue, it becomes clear: The mental health struggles are overwhelming. Many of these refugees experience symptoms like post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depression, and anxiety at alarmingly high rates. The numbers are much higher than in the general population, showing just how deep the impact of displacement can go.

But what brought me to this research in the first place? It was a mix of personal experience and curiosity. I started my career studying Venezuelan refugees in Florida back in 2017. I’ll never forget the faces of the people I met—many of them fleeing unimaginable violence, economic collapse, and loss. They arrived in the U.S. with nothing but their documents and a few belongings. I remember hearing their stories of walking through dangerous routes, witnessing torture, and leaving their families behind. Their pain was raw, their fears tangible, and I felt compelled to learn more.

I came to this research not just because I’m an academic; I came to it because I get it. As an immigrant myself, I understand the struggles of adapting to a new life. I moved to the U.S. from Astana, Kazakhstan, in 2015, with a 5-year-old kid, pregnant with my second child, and not knowing English well. I had been granted a scholarship to study here, but that decision still wasn’t easy.

I remember the dilemma I faced back in Astana: Should I accept the scholarship to study in the U.S., or should I stay home, give birth, and live a more “peaceful” life? I was eight months pregnant at the time, and a long flight to the U.S. seemed risky. All of my relatives and friends told me not to go. But one colleague from my previous job shared a story that changed everything. They had been offered the chance to go abroad when they were younger, but they turned it down. Now, years later, they regretted it. Their life was “settled,” but not as fulfilling as they had hoped.

Those words hit me deeply: Opportunities like this come only once in a lifetime. I knew I couldn’t let fear stop me from taking a chance, so I packed my bags, left behind my life, my family, and the stability I knew. Since then, my life has been different—sometimes difficult, but also rewarding.

I remember when we finally settled in San Diego. Found a place near UCSD, got my class schedule, found an elementary school for my daughter—and then decided it was time to make my first doctor’s appointment. Eight months pregnant and figuring out how to make that phone call felt like I was about to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded. I wrote down everything I wanted to say on a piece of paper. Then I called, and the receptionist responded as if she was speaking a different language.

I tried to keep it together, asking her—politely, of course—if she could slow down and repeat herself. Somehow, I did manage to schedule the appointment, though it felt like a miracle. Honestly, I think she was just relieved to get me off the phone.

Talking in person? That was terrifying. But phone calls? Those were next-level anxiety. By the time I finally got to the doctor's office, I was down a couple of pounds—pregnancy weight loss, perhaps, or maybe I was too stressed to eat or, you know, exist properly. I walked everywhere, didn’t have time for meals, and everything felt like a circus on roller skates. It was a humbling experience—like I was there, but also like no one really saw me.

But those moments of stepping into the unknown and taking risks—even when I wasn’t sure I’d make it out in one piece—have stuck with me. And they drive my passion for understanding the experiences of other immigrants and refugees. Because, in the end, we all have to navigate a world that doesn’t always see us. And when we take those first steps—no matter how shaky or awkward—they can lead to something much bigger.

Why I Care So Much About This Research

I’m passionate about my work because I know what it’s like to be displaced and to struggle with the challenges of starting over in a foreign place. But my passion runs deeper than that. I study trauma, especially the kind that stays with people for years—sometimes, even for a lifetime. This kind of trauma doesn’t just disappear when people move to a new country. It follows them, deeply embedded in their psyche, affecting their relationships, their sense of security, and their mental well-being.

In my case, the research is personal. I grew up in Kazakhstan during the Soviet era. In the early 1990s, everything changed overnight. The country faced a sudden surge in crime, with gangs roaming the streets and violence becoming a daily reality. We dealt with power outages, food shortages, and a sense of uncertainty everywhere. I remember one day, as my stepbrother and I walked to school when I was about 7 years old, minding our own business, we suddenly got surrounded by a group of about 15 teenage boys. They were puffing on cigarettes, swearing like sailors, and holding knives. They looked so much older and tougher than we were, and they started threatening us, saying they'd hurt us if we didn’t give them money. I was just a kid. They dug through our backpacks and pockets, but of course, we didn’t have anything. After a tense few minutes, they finally let us go.

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Now, looking back, it's kind of funny because they actually took my bread with jam. It was my snack—the simple snack that my mom had given me. I remember thinking, "Seriously? You’re taking my snack?" But back then, I wasn’t laughing. I was scared. I never thought my snack would be part of a robbery.

After they left, my stepbrother and I just kept walking, kind of in shock. I never expected that kind of thing to happen, especially not on my way to school. But now, when I think about it, I can’t help but smile at how absurd it was, these tough teenage boys, stealing bread from a little kid.

I didn’t recognize it as trauma at the time. It became just another part of life. But looking back, I see how these experiences shaped my view of the world and how my brain learned to adapt to constant danger.

I think this is what happens to many refugees. They adapt to their environment, even when that environment is unhealthy or traumatic. The people I interviewed for my research told me different stories. They had become so used to living under bombings, under threat, that they no longer sought shelter when sirens went off. It’s a survival mechanism, but not a healthy one. It’s one of the many reasons I feel deeply connected to the people I study.

The Healing Power of Empathy

In many ways, this work is about more than just data or research findings; it’s about empathy. My hope is that through my research, I can shed light on the struggles refugees face and help people understand the lasting impact of trauma. It’s about making people aware of the emotional cost of displacement and offering support to those who are struggling.

Although I’m excited to share the results of my research on Ukrainian refugees soon, I can’t share many of their personal stories just yet because of confidentiality concerns. But when I’m able to share them, I will. Their stories need to be heard.

I often reflect on why I’m so passionate about this subject. I think about my childhood, about the emotional pain I experienced in my relationship with my stepfather. That pain didn’t go away when I grew up; it’s something I carry with me. I’m thankful for my mother, who raised me with love and care. But that relationship, and the emotional abuse I suffered, has deeply shaped my life. Writing about it now, telling my story, helps me process that pain.

And that’s what I want my research to do for others: help them process their pain, understand their trauma, and ultimately, find healing.

Why I Think This Matters

When we talk about trauma, we often think of big events—wars, natural disasters, refugee camps. But trauma can also be personal. It can be the emotional abuse a child endures or the pain of leaving everything behind. For refugees, both types of trauma coexist. They’ve fled violence, experienced loss, and been forced to adapt to a new culture, language, and way of life.

By understanding the mental health challenges that refugees face, we can better support them in their healing journey. That’s why I do this work. I believe that, with the right tools and support, we can help people break the cycle of trauma and build healthier lives.

We all have struggles, but some people’s struggles are harder to bear than others. If we could all be a little more empathetic, a little more understanding, maybe the world would be a kinder place for everyone—and especially for refugees who have experienced lots of trauma. We don’t have to solve everything, but a little kindness goes a long way.