You breathe a sigh of relief when your plane lands in your home country. The sound of your mother tongue, the familiar smells, the comfort of “home”—it all feels like a balm. You wish you could bottle that feeling and carry it with you.

But soon, something shifts. The slang feels foreign, the cultural references unfamiliar. You begin to feel like a stranger in your own country. The irony? You’ve grown comfortable everywhere—but don’t feel fully rooted anywhere.

In D.C., your close-knit group of friends offers comfort. Speaking your native language with them softens the loneliness. These relationships matter deeply—but they don’t erase the quiet grief of dislocation.

You cook the dishes you grew up with, hoping to pass on something of yourself. But your kids don’t always share your tastes—or the connection those meals represent. And when even your child sees you as a foreigner, it stings in ways that are hard to explain.