I Just Voted For The First Time. I’m Shocked Anyone Would Pass Up This Opportunity.

“I usually don’t vote,” she said casually over her waffles, the words landing between us like a spilled mimosa. I stared at my eggs Benedict, suddenly less appetizing, as the now-ruiner of brunch continued with a proud grin, “And if I do vote in the presidential election, I just write my name in.” She laughed.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, a new U.S. citizen practically vibrating with excitement about my first time voting, sitting across from someone willingly throwing away what I’d spent nearly two decades trying to obtain.
I’m what they call a third-culture kid, which is a fancy way of saying “globally confused.” I was born in Japan, with roots in Zimbabwe, and a childhood pinballing between New York City, Harare, and Geneva before landing in South Carolina for college. My cultural diversity manifests primarily through food: My love language is sushi, I feel at home when I eat my mom’s sadza with oxtail, and I salivate over the perfect raclette. Like many of America’s 45 million immigrants, I’m fluent in the art of being from everywhere and nowhere — a human GPS constantly recalculating.
“You’ve never voted before?” The question comes with enough raised eyebrows to start a TikTok trend. I’ve mastered the apologetic hands-up surrender: “No, I just became a U.S. citizen!” I watch how quickly the judgment transforms into celebration, like I’ve just announced I’m expecting. (Mom, if you’re reading this — I am not. This example just seemed appropriate here.) What they don’t see is the Olympic-level obstacle course that is the immigration system. My previous partners, friends and family who helped me navigate it deserve medals themselves for watching me amateur breakdance my way through this adventure.
They say your first time should be special. Mine, at 39 years old, involved a white envelope, sweaty palms, and an overwhelming urge to take a selfie — yes, I’m still talking about voting. After nearly two decades of living in the D.C. metropolitan area, I finally joined America’s most exclusive club: people who complain about politics while actually doing something about it. A club that, apparently, my friend at brunch had no interest in joining.
For every person who casually dismisses their right to vote over bottomless mimosas, there are countless others — immigrants, noncitizens, people fighting through systematic barriers — who would trade anything for a chance to have their voices heard. We are the ones watching from the sidelines, holding our breath, while others treat their voting rights like an optional weekend activity.
I join approximately 24 million other naturalized citizens — roughly 10% of American voters, or as I like to think of it, enough people to start our own country of formerly-not-Americans. For us, the responsibility hits different. Every bubble I filled represented years of watching from the sidelines, nodding politely during political discussions while internally screaming, “I HAVE THOUGHTS!”
Don’t get me wrong — I’ve never been quiet about my opinions and have always tried to participate civically however I could. I’ve done public relations for immigrant causes and voting organizations, and supported enough agencies and nonprofits to fill a Scrabble board with D.C.’s alphabet soup. But there’s something special about finally getting to vote. It’s like being promoted from enthusiastic spectator to actual player, except instead of sports, it’s democracy. And trust me, I’ve waited on the sidelines long enough.
Side note: Can we talk about those election reminder texts? “Hey Mercy, this is [Political Organization] checking for the 47th time if you’ve thought about voting today!” Yes, [Political Organization], I think about voting the way my mom thinks about my single status — constantly and with increasing urgency.
But here’s the wild part: In 2020, some state races were decided by just a few thousand people. So when people tell me they’re skipping the election because they don’t like the candidates, they can’t be bothered, or their “vote doesn’t matter,” I remind them that voter apathy dilutes democracy. When you don’t vote, you don’t have a say on issues that affect you and your loved ones.
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This morning, I walked a block to drop off my ballot, half expecting confetti to fall from the sky. Nothing happened. No parade, no marching band, not even a single firecracker. Just me, casually participating in democracy like I’ve been doing it all my life. The significance wasn’t lost on me — in many countries, including where my entire family resides, people risk their lives for this right. My first ballot feels like the price my ancestors paid for me to get here. That’s what makes me emotional. I returned home a first-time voter and unscathed.
This year, 41 million members of Gen Z are eligible to vote, and thank goodness we have youth who are engaged, leading social movements and passionate about their futures. I’m also grateful there are organizations like When We All Vote, which helped me register to vote, and many more like HeadCount, Voto Latino and Rock The Vote, all working to ensure everyone has a voice in this country’s future.
My sealed envelope joins millions of others, each containing someone’s hopes for the future. Mine carries the dreams of that wide-eyed girl who first arrived here, along with a small prayer that I filled everything out correctly.
I voted today. And while you’re deciding whether to vote, remember this: Somewhere in your city, an immigrant is watching their life get decided over brunch conversations they can’t join yet. Each ballot carries the power to shift, shape and build the world we live in. Your voting apathy is their Sunday scaries — and trust me, no amount of bottomless mimosas fixes that kind of frustration.