The Geology of a Proud Step: How to Stay True to Yourself Abroad

They say that living in a foreign country is a process where you slowly lose yourself, until you become a shadow of what you once were. I say it is a geological process. We do not disappear; we merely settle into new layers, becoming harder, more resilient, and crystallizing under the pressure of unfamiliar streets.

My mornings no longer smell of salt and children's clamor from the Dalmatian streets. There is no specific smell of the sea that fills your lungs before you even open your eyes. I have learned to wake up in a silence that belongs to another world. But, as soon as I open the window and look up, I am in awe. The sun that warms me in France is the same sun that illuminated my childhood. That clear air and the blue of the sky are my umbilical cord to the "original" city. In that sky, there are no borders and no strangers. That is where I find my peace before stepping into the day.

Many in my position would feel like ghosts. People pass by you and see only a "foreigner," not suspecting what sediments of memory you carry within. But I refuse to be invisible. My step is firm, and my head is held high. It is that innate, defiant pride of a child who has spent her life in the most beautiful cities of the world and who knows her worth. I do not walk these cities like someone asking for permission to exist. I walk like a woman who knows her internal map is larger than any country.

Language is my most exciting battle. I remember Canada and English, which was a cage to me then – I felt that my true personality, my humor, and warmth remained locked because foreign words couldn't convey them. And now, in France, magic happens. As I try to tame French sentences, I often pause. In those moments, English, which was once foreign to me, becomes my savior. Through it, I convey a piece of my true soul to the French speaker. It is my bridge – I use one learned world to explain the other that I am still building.

And when the day gets hard, I return to my "anchors." In my jewelry box, I keep my mother's ring. It is too big for my hand, but it is a perfect shield for my heart. There is also her flight attendant cap, a reminder of the heights she conquered, giving me wings to fly through my own challenges. My photo album, older than me, keeps pictures of my parents from a time when they were young and full of dreams. It is not just paper and gold. It is my divine protection.

Looking at those photos and holding my mother's ring, I realize: I am not lost in translation. I am a geologist of the soul who learned that home is not found in the smell of a familiar street, but in the strength of the step with which we tread an unfamiliar one.

My erosion did not destroy me; it only stripped away the old layers to reveal the crystal that was always there. Proud, tall, and my own, no matter what language I pronounce my name in today.