The Silence That Knew My Name
When I arrived in the new land, I lost my language before I lost myself.
An Art of Drinking Water reflection · 5 minute read
When I arrived in the new land, I lost my language before I lost myself.
That surprised me.
I still knew who I was.
What I had done.
What I carried.
What I was capable of.
But none of that translated.
My mouth held words that no longer opened doors.
My thoughts moved faster than my sentences could follow.
I understood far more than I could say—and that gap became its own kind of loneliness.
People spoke to me slowly, loudly, as if volume could replace meaning.
They finished my sentences incorrectly.
They mistook my silence for emptiness.
What they couldn’t see was how full I was.
I came with a history.
With humor.
With authority earned elsewhere.
I had been articulate.
Respected.
Certain.
In this new place, I became careful.
Careful with verbs.
Careful with questions.
Careful not to expose how much of myself was waiting behind words I couldn’t yet reach.
There is a particular grief in knowing exactly who you are
while being unable to show it.
You watch people decide things about you in real time—
that you are simple, inexperienced, unsure.
And you let them.
Not because it’s true,
but because correcting them would require a fluency you don’t yet have.
Learning a new language humbles you in ways pride doesn’t prepare for.
You become childlike without being young.
Dependent without being helpless.
Invisible while standing right there.
And still—inside—you remain intact.
Your memories don’t disappear.
Your intelligence doesn’t reset.
Your dignity doesn’t dissolve just because your tongue hesitates.
Water taught me something here.
Water doesn’t forget where it’s been.
It carries minerals from every place it has touched.
It changes temperature, speed, surface—but not essence.
So did I.
Each day, I learned new words.
New sounds.
New ways to ask for what I needed.
But I also learned to hold onto myself while I did.
To remember that my worth was not located in pronunciation.
That my past did not vanish at the border.
That becoming fluent did not require becoming smaller.
Some days, the exhaustion came not from learning,
but from being misunderstood so often.
From knowing the answer and lacking the language to give it.
From watching others mistake silence for lack.
But slowly—patiently—the words began to arrive.
Not all at once.
Not evenly.
And when they did, they carried traces of who I had always been.
The old confidence, translated.
The old humor, reshaped.
The old strength, intact.
Now, when I struggle for a word, I don’t rush myself.
I remember this:
I was someone before I arrived here.
I am someone while I am learning.
And I will be someone long after the language catches up.
Not knowing the language of a new land does not erase who you are.
It simply asks you to carry yourself quietly for a while—
until the words learn how to hold you.
Like water crossing borders,
finding new names for itself,
without ever forgetting its source.