Nobody told me that speaking English abroad could still feel like speaking a second language. At first, I talked freely. Then I noticed the pauses. The “Sorry?” The tiny confusion on faces when I spoke fast.
It wasn’t racism. It was reality: my rhythm was different.
After a few awkward moments, I started speaking less. I edited myself. I rehearsed sentences in my head before saying them. I became quieter—not because I had nothing to say, but because I wanted to avoid misunderstanding.
One day, a colleague told me, “We like when you speak. Don’t disappear.” That line hit harder than I expected.
I realized I had been shrinking again. Migration can make you reduce yourself in small ways—voice, jokes, personality—until you’re only a safe version of you.
So I practiced. I slowed down. I asked people to repeat themselves too. I stopped apologizing for existing.
Now, my accent is part of my identity, not my insecurity. And honestly? The people worth knowing will meet you halfway. The rest can keep their “Sorry?”
