Latest / Who’s Your Person?: Friendship, Trust & Belonging / Lost in Translation: Finding Belonging When You Lose Your Cultural Map | Who’s Your Person?
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of loneliness that hits you in the grocery aisle, when you realize no one around you knows the joke embedded in the brand name on the cereal box. It’s not just about being far from home; it’s about realizing your internal compass has been unplugged. I want you to picture this scene with me. You’re standing in a supermarket in a city that isn’t yours. Maybe it’s London, maybe it’s Tokyo, or maybe it’s just a new state over three time zones away. You reach for a snack that used to be a childhood staple, something that tastes like Saturday mornings and safety. But here, the packaging is different. The flavor profile is slightly off. And when you ask a stranger in line, 'Is this the same as the one back home?' they look at you with genuine confusion. They don’t know what you mean. Not because they’re rude, but because their history is different from yours. That moment? That tiny, almost imperceptible fracture in reality? That is where the real work of belonging begins. We often talk about expat life in terms of logistics—visas, leases, bank accounts. But we rarely talk about the emotional labor of losing your cultural reference points. It’s like waking up one day and realizing everyone else is playing a game you forgot the rules to. You smile. You nod. You buy the wrong snack. And then you go home, eat it anyway, and feel a grief so quiet you’re not sure anyone else would notice if you mentioned it. Let’s sit with that. Because it is grief. We tend to think of grief only in terms of death or major breakups, but there is a profound mourning involved in losing the shorthand of your culture. Remember when I talked last month about the guilt of choosing yourself? Well, this is the guilt of choosing your own identity in a space that doesn’t recognize it. In my old neighborhood, there was a certain way to say hello that implied, 'I know your mother, and I know she makes too much salt.' Here, that context is gone. I have to explain who I am from scratch, every single day. Sometimes I’m tired of explaining. Sometimes I just want to be understood without having to translate myself. It’s exhausting to constantly be an ambassador for a version of yourself that feels incomplete. You start to wonder: If I can’t share these small, mundane details with people, do I really belong here? Or am I just a tourist in my own life? But here is the truth, and I say this with all the warmth I can muster: You are not broken for missing that shorthand. You are human for missing the ease of being known. The ache you feel is proof of how deeply you loved those connections. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s silly to miss a song lyric or a holiday tradition. Those things are anchors. When they float away, you drift. So, what do we do? Do we just wait for someone to arrive who speaks our native tongue? No. That is the trap. We fall into the myth that belonging is a place you find, rather than a practice you build. I see so many friends trying to force themselves into existing expat bubbles, thinking that if they surround themselves only with people from back home, the loneliness will lift. And sure, it helps. It’s a life raft. But a life raft isn’t a house. If you only hang out with people who share your exact past, you risk creating a museum of who you used to be. You become a curator of nostalgia, polishing old memories until they shine, while the present moment slips by. I’ve done this. Oh, yes. I spent years trying to recreate the vibe of my Brooklyn apartment in my current city, buying the same coffee beans, listening to the same playlists, expecting the same serendipitous encounters. And I was miserable. Because the magic wasn’t in the objects or the sounds. The magic was in the shared context. And I couldn’t import that. You have to be willing to be the beginner again. To be the person who doesn’t get the local slang. Who trips over the social norms. It feels vulnerable. It feels stupid. But it is also incredibly freeing. When you stop pretending you know the rules, you start making new ones. You invite others into your unfamiliarity. And that is where the real connection starts. Here is the shift I’ve had to learn. I used to see my lack of cultural fluency as a deficit. Now, I see it as a superpower. When you don’t share the same background, you have to communicate differently. You have to be more intentional. You have to explain why something matters to you. You can’t rely on assumption. Think about that. In my old life, I might have assumed my friends knew why I cried during a certain movie. Here, I have to say, 'This scene reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen.' And in saying that, I am inviting them into my soul in a way I never did before. I am teaching them my world. And they are teaching me theirs. This exchange is richer than any unspoken understanding ever was. It is deeper. It requires presence. What did that cost you? It costs you comfort. It costs you the easy ride. But it buys you authenticity. When a friend asks you to explain a tradition, don’t rush through it. Don’t apologize for it being complicated. Teach them. Let them ask questions. Let them be curious. Curiosity is the bridge. In a world that often rushes to judgment, curiosity is the rarest and most generous gift you can give—and receive. Since you can’t always find the old rituals, you must create new ones. This is the pragmatic part of my advice, coming straight from my days as an organizer. We built community by making space for people to show up. Now, you make space for your new culture. Find one thing. Just one. Maybe it’s a local market where the vendors speak slowly. Maybe it’s a park bench where you watch the sunset and imagine it looks the same from home. Maybe it’s a recipe you adapt, mixing ingredients from both worlds. Start small. These micro-rituals ground you. They tell your nervous system, 'I am here. This is my life now.' And please, give yourself permission to fail at this. You will mispronounce words. You will misunderstand a gesture. You will feel awkward at dinner parties. Laugh at it. Share it. Humor is the best translation tool we have. When you laugh at your own mistakes, you signal to others that you are safe, that you are open, that you are not perfect, but you are trying. And that is exactly who people want to be friends with. I want to leave you with this thought. Belonging is not about fitting in perfectly. It’s about showing up imperfectly and being accepted anyway. As an expat, you are practicing this courage daily. You are stepping into rooms where you don’t know the script. That takes bravery. So honor that bravery. You are allowed to outgrow the need for easy belonging. You are allowed to seek depth over convenience. The friendships you make now, forged in the fire of misunderstanding and patience, may be stronger than the ones you left behind. They are chosen, not just inherited. They are built on intention. So tonight, when you’re in your kitchen, cooking that slightly-off meal, or walking down a street where the signs are in a language you’re still learning, take a breath. Acknowledge the loss. Honor the distance. And then, look around. Look for the curiosity in someone’s eyes. Offer your own. Build the bridge, one word at a time. You are not lost. You are becoming. Thank you for letting me into your corner today. Be gentle with yourself as you navigate this strange, beautiful, confusing transition. You are doing better than you think. I’ll see you next time. Bye for now.