My Road to Integration: Language, Fear, and Small Journeys

Starting Over After 50

As part of my journey of adaptation, I want to share a personal story — for anyone who, like me, had to start life over in a new country.

The very first and most essential step toward integration in France is learning the language.

Starting to learn French after the age of 50 was not an easy decision. At first, I only wanted to speak and understand people in everyday situations. But I chose to take French classes with native speakers. It was incredibly difficult: the sounds felt unfamiliar, the pronunciation seemed impossible, and I thought I might never speak this language fluently.

But I kept going. I studied and practiced, and then — one day — something changed. I started understanding people at the market, in stores, on the street. I began to hear the language, not just listen to it. That moment gave me the confidence to keep learning, to go deeper.

Discovering the World Around Me

The next step in my integration was getting to know the place I now call home. It was a different kind of learning.

In the beginning, I was afraid — afraid to go outside, afraid to be among people. We lived in a small town, but I still had to go shopping and visit local markets. Many of the products were new to me, and I began exploring them slowly. This wasn’t just about food — it was about discovering a new way of life.

What helped me most was driving. Being in the car felt like being in my own safe space. I would explore the city, its surroundings, nearby villages. Each trip felt like a small journey — new roads, new routes, new scenery. This became part of my life in France — learning not just the language or the culture, but also the land itself.

Time seemed to pass me by as I tried to learn how to breathe in a new reality. Everything felt unfamiliar — the streets, the sounds, the way people looked at me, and especially the language. I felt like I was trapped in a silent film: life moved fast around me, but the words were out of reach. All I could do was watch and wait.

The first thread that connected me to this new world was people who spoke Russian. They were like me — looking for support, warmth, and a sense of belonging. It was easy to talk to them, to share our worries and small victories. We exchanged advice about integration, documents, finding courses, and adjusting to life in France.

Most of my new friends were Ukrainians. That year, the war had just begun, and many had fled with only their children and a suitcase. Everyone carried a story — of goodbyes at the border, of families separated, of hopes held together by photographs and voice messages. Every conversation carried pain, but also strength.

We attended French language classes together, organized by associations that supported migrants and refugees. Later, I joined paid classes where I met people from Syria, Iran, Afghanistan, Colombia. We were from different corners of the world, but we shared something powerful: none of us felt truly at home, but each of us was determined to build a new one.

Talking to others became something I looked forward to. Even when words were missing, there were gestures, glances, and smiles. Every exchange, every shared moment, was a step forward. And perhaps the most important realization was this:

you are never truly alone.

Even in a foreign world — you can find your own.