Growing Up Between Two Worlds

The Strange Childhood of Being From Everywhere and Nowhere

When people ask me where I’m from, I always hesitate.

It’s such a simple question—easy for most people.

But for me, it feels like standing at a crossroads, trying to decide which memory to open first.

Do I tell them about the place where I was born?

Or the place where I grew up?

Or the place that shaped my heart the most?

The truth is, I grew up between two worlds, and sometimes it felt like I didn’t fully belong to either one.

One world held my childhood—dusty streets, loud markets, laughter spilling out of open windows.

The other held my future—quiet neighborhoods, neat sidewalks, and a sky that felt cleaner, wider, more organized.

Two countries.

Two cultures.

Two versions of myself.

Growing up between them wasn’t easy.

But it gave me something rare—the ability to see life from both sides of the bridge.

The Push and Pull of Two Homes

My earliest memories belong to my parents’ homeland—the “first world” of my life.

It smelled like spices and warm bread.

It sounded like cousins calling my name from rooftops.

It felt like comfort, like being wrapped in a blanket you didn’t know you needed.

Then came the move.

New country.

New language.

New rules for everything—including how to exist.

Suddenly, I had to learn to pronounce my own name differently so people wouldn’t struggle with it.

I had to translate jokes in my head before laughing.

I had to learn which parts of me fit in and which parts felt louder, brighter, or “too much.”

Back home, I was the kid who spoke differently.

Here, I was the kid who looked different.

In one country, I blended in but didn’t feel like I truly belonged.

In the other, I belonged but didn’t fully blend in.

That’s the strange thing about growing up between two worlds:

You become a permanent visitor in both places.

Learning to Switch Lives Like Languages

By the time I turned thirteen, I was living two lives.

At home, I spoke my mother tongue—soft, emotional, full of metaphors that didn’t exist in English.

Outside, I switched to a sharper, quicker language with cleaner edges.

At home, meals lasted an hour.

Outside, lunch was something you ate in ten minutes while walking.

At home, emotions were loud.

Outside, emotions were private.

I became good—too good—at switching.

One version of me could navigate crowded streets, greet elders respectfully, and eat with my hands.

The other version could ace group presentations, order coffee without stumbling, and joke like I’d lived here forever.

People said I was adaptable.

Flexible.

Resilient.

But sometimes I wondered if I was simply learning not to choose.

The Moment I Realized I Was Split

The moment that changed me wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t a fight, or a heartbreak, or an identity crisis.

It happened in a grocery store.

I was standing in the aisle between the foods from “home” and the foods from “here,” and I realized:

Both sides felt familiar.

Both sides felt distant.

Both sides felt like pieces of me.

It hit me quietly—like a truth I had always known but never said out loud:

I was not born to choose one world.

I was born to grow from both.

That realization softened something inside me.

For years, I believed I had to pick a side to fully belong.

But maybe belonging wasn’t about choosing.

Maybe it was about weaving.

The Beauty of Being In-Between

As I grew older, the confusion began to transform.

What once felt like a cultural tug-of-war started feeling like a gift.

I had two ways of understanding people.

Two ways of loving.

Two ways of seeing the world.

I knew how to comfort someone with silence—and how to comfort them with loud, emotional warmth.

I knew the value of independence—and the value of community.

I understood the power of being seen for who you are—and the tenderness of being seen for who you were raised to be.

And slowly, I realized something:

Growing up between two worlds didn’t divide me.

It expanded me.

It made my life bigger.

Richer.

More layered.

I had roots in one world and wings in another.

I didn’t belong halfway to both places.

I belonged fully to each one.

Finding My Place in the Middle

The older I became, the more I learned to celebrate my in-between identity.

I stopped apologizing for having an accent in both languages.

I stopped feeling embarrassed when my parents spoke loudly in public.

I stopped hiding the foods, the traditions, the stories that shaped me.

Instead, I let myself be everything I was:

A child of two cultures.

A citizen of two homes.

A heart shaped by two worlds.

And once I embraced that truth, everything changed.

I began to feel less like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit—and more like a bridge.

A connector.

A storyteller.

A reminder that the world is bigger than borders and smaller than we think.

I realized that identity isn’t a single place.

It’s a journey.

A collection of moments, loves, lessons, memories.

I wasn’t meant to choose one version of myself.

I was meant to be whole.

The World I Carry Inside Me Now

Today, when someone asks me where I’m from, I no longer hesitate.

I smile.

And I say, “It’s a long story.”

Because it is.

It’s a story of two countries, two languages, two cultures… and one heart learning to hold them all.

It’s a story of being misunderstood and then becoming my own understanding.

It’s a story of learning that you can belong to more than one place and still be complete.

I used to think growing up between two worlds made me confused.

Now I know it made me complete.

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Thank You For Reading...

Regards; Fazal Hadi