"Growing Up Between Two Worlds",

I was born in a house filled with tradition and raised in a world that challenged everything that tradition stood for. My parents carried the weight of a homeland they had left behind—its language, its values, its unspoken rules. I, on the other hand, carried a backpack full of schoolbooks, pop culture references, and questions about why I felt like I was constantly walking a tightrope between who I truly was and who I was supposed to be.

At home, I was the respectful child, taught to speak softly, to avoid conflict, to prioritize family, and to never question authority. Our meals were rich with spices and stories from "back home," and our living room echoed with a language I didn’t speak fluently but understood in my bones. My identity was shaped in silence—by watching, listening, and absorbing.

But the moment I stepped outside, I entered a different world. One that encouraged boldness, individuality, and questioning everything. In school, I learned to raise my hand, voice my opinion, and dream beyond the bounds of tradition. Friends spoke freely about dating, careers in the arts, or choosing not to have kids—things that would be unthinkable to say aloud in my house.

I quickly learned to code-switch, not just linguistically, but emotionally. At home, I suppressed my opinions to avoid disappointing my parents. At school or work, I dialed up my confidence to match those around me. I was constantly adjusting the volume of different parts of myself, trying to be loud enough to belong, but quiet enough to not stand out too much.

This balancing act took a toll. I spent years feeling like I was performing. I laughed at jokes I didn’t understand and smiled through conversations where I couldn’t relate. Worse, I began to resent parts of myself—my accent, my customs, even my parents. I saw them through the lens of the world outside and feared they made me "too different."

The real struggle wasn’t just between two cultures—it was the internal battle of authenticity versus expectation. Who was I when no one was watching? And more importantly, who was I willing to disappoint in order to be that person?

There came a moment when the scales tipped. It was during college, a time when many people begin to shed the skin of who they were and step into who they want to become. I met others with similar stories—first-generation kids trying to honor their roots while planting new ones in unfamiliar soil. Their honesty gave me the courage to confront my own fears. I realized that being between two worlds didn’t mean I didn’t belong in either—it meant I belonged to both, in a way that was uniquely mine.

So I began the slow, deliberate work of integration.

I started having difficult conversations with my parents—explaining why certain traditions didn’t resonate with me or how their expectations sometimes felt like chains rather than guidance. Some talks ended in tears, others in silence. But little by little, they began to see me not as the child they were raising, but as the adult I was becoming.

I also gave myself permission to embrace the parts of my heritage I had once hidden. I wore my traditional clothes to events with pride. I cooked my family’s recipes and shared them with friends. I no longer flinched when someone mispronounced my name—I corrected them, kindly but firmly.

Balancing who I am with who I’m expected to be is still an ongoing journey. There are days when I revert to old habits, when I bite my tongue to keep the peace, or feel a pang of guilt for choosing a path my parents wouldn’t have picked for me. But there are also days filled with clarity and confidence—when I see how beautifully the two worlds I inhabit can coexist within me.

I’ve come to understand that I am not half of anything—I am whole, built from layers of culture, history, and personal choice. And in learning to carry all of it with grace, I’ve found my truest self: not defined by the expectations of either world, but shaped by the strength it took to balance them.