Exploring the complexities of belonging, the author reflects on language, cultural identity, and the discomfort of learning in new environments.
How do we learn to belong? Is it through the subtle nuances of conversation that guide us through interactions? Is it in the way we observe and respond to one another? Or perhaps it lies in the feeling of being seen repeatedly until that familiarity becomes a source of grounding?
Feeling rooted in a space, routine, or rhythm can be challenging, especially when one initially feels like an outsider. This sense of belonging may emerge from the familiarity that develops with those we encounter daily. Kinship often unfolds through repetition, proximity, and the passage of time.
Sometimes, the journey toward belonging begins with a guide. For instance, a past colleague at my organization shared her experiences with me through long voice memos, offering insights as if passing down a gentle inheritance. She advised me on what to be cautious of, who to rely on, and how to establish boundaries early on to avoid feeling overwhelmed later. This kind of generational knowledge, shared informally, feels sacred, as if someone is saying, “I want to help you navigate this.”
Suddenly, I found myself in meetings at the office, trying to stay engaged while struggling to comprehend the discussions. I scribbled my first Hindi words in the margins of my notebook—half-formed phrases and misspellings. My confusion stemmed not only from the language itself but also from my inability to discern which language I was hearing. Was it Hindi? Gujarati? Both? My colleagues, adept Indian polyglots, effortlessly navigated their own code-switching while I grappled with the basics.
This discomfort was not new to me. Two years ago, I experienced a similar struggle while living in Buenos Aires for six months. I attempted to grasp the meaning of Spanish words during late-night dinners with my host mom, who spoke rapidly. We tried to converse about philosophy, politics, religion, and relationships—topics far beyond my vocabulary. Yet, I persisted, fumbling and failing, but ultimately learning. I arrived in Argentina with barely an “hola” and left with a newfound understanding of a different way of being. Language is the thread that connects us, allowing us to comprehend what matters and the intricacies of culture.
This dual consciousness has been a part of my life since birth. Before I spoke English, Malayalam was the language that surrounded me at home. Over time, as I attended school and socialized, English began to dominate. It became the language of belonging but also of erasure. There is a unique ache in being fluent in the language that displaced your own, feeling corrected, pitied, or even laughed at when attempting to speak your “mother tongue.” It is as if I am a guest in a home I was meant to inhabit.
The language I came from is beautiful, yet it often feels like a spectacle, a tool to validate my Indian heritage—an identity scrutinized through the lens of racialized power.
Perhaps part of this journey of discomfort is about reclaiming something lost. It is about remembering what it feels like to not understand and being okay with that. It involves learning to coexist with contradictions and unlearning the instinct to always make myself easier to comprehend.
I faced a similar challenge when I traveled to France to study and improve my language skills. Armed with four years of high school French, I arrived with a false sense of confidence. Yet, I quickly realized I knew little about the pace of native speech or the nuances of pronunciation. However, I had been through this process before. I understood what it looked like for me, and I knew how to support myself.
This leads me to wonder: what does it say about me that I keep choosing this path? Am I trying to prove something to myself or to others? Do I seek discomfort to avoid stillness, to keep my mind occupied and distracted from deeper existential questions?
Perhaps it is a profound curiosity.
Ultimately, it is a privilege to be here, to fail, to learn, to listen, and to make mistakes. The discomfort serves as an entry point, and the pattern begins to clarify. Each time I immerse myself in a new environment, I experience that initial period of internal friction, though it becomes easier with each iteration. I doubt myself, question my motivations, and fixate on what I cannot articulate or comprehend. Yet, I eventually stop needing everything to make sense immediately. The process of arriving, questioning, and learning transcends language; it is about relinquishing control and allowing oneself to evolve in real time.
I believe I am drawn to this cycle repeatedly because I want to grow by disrupting my habitual ways of knowing. I strive to remain humble enough to relearn the basics, to listen more than I speak, and to acknowledge when I do not understand. This approach keeps me close to the edges of my identity, preventing me from becoming too rigid in my self-perception.
Every time I say, “This is new for me,” instead of “I’m bad at this,” I grant myself permission to learn. Even admitting, “I’m bad at this,” can be empowering if expressed with humility rather than shame. Growth often begins with the honesty of acknowledging, “I’m not good at this yet,” followed by the determination to try anyway. Sometimes, growth starts when we confront our weaknesses and choose to improve with intention rather than comfort.
Gradually, or perhaps all at once, connections begin to form.
Acclimation can sneak up on you. You may find that you no longer translate in your head, laugh at the appropriate moments, or grasp the tone of a conversation without needing to understand the words. You might even comprehend a joke before it is explained. It feels like magic. I remind myself that I do not need all the answers right now. If I were meant to have everything figured out, I would not be here for this long.
I want to be present.
Let it be unpolished, messy, and true.
According to India Currents.