Living abroad comes with many challenges, some predictable, others unexpected.
When my husband and I decided to leave Poland, I was excited for the new adventure: to see new places, meet new people, and gain new experiences.
I knew I would miss my people and my familiar places. I understood the logistics and knew I would have to use English. However, I did not anticipate the unsettling feeling of no longer being surrounded by my native language. I had learned English before, and I could communicate well, but not with the ease and confidence I had in Polish. I hesitated to speak, never sure if my sentences were correct or if I was expressing my thoughts clearly. My speech felt artificial, as if I were reciting phrases from an English textbook rather than speaking as myself.
Polish was more than just a language to me. It was part of my identity, my worldview. I studied it in college, admired its creativity in poetry, and explored its flexibility in everyday conversations. I didn’t just speak Polish; I felt it, understood its nuances, and played with its rhythm and tone. If language were painting, then in Polish, I had access to the full palette. I could choose the perfect shades and blend them seamlessly. In English, I could only use the basic colors, painting in broad strokes rather than delicate details. Without the ability to play with words, to express humor, or to confidently use idioms, I felt that my personality wasn’t coming through the way I wanted.
My speech in English was flat, functional, but lacking depth. It fulfilled the purpose of communication but was stripped of the richness of expression I was used to. I found solace in the words of Eva Hoffman in Lost in Translation. Though our paths differed, I recognized the love and attachment to the Polish language she described, as well as the struggles of adjusting to the limits of a new one. Fortunately, I emigrated at a time when attitudes toward bilingualism had shifted. Linguists like John McWhorter and Steven Pinker have fostered greater acceptance of foreign accents, recognizing them as natural and valuable parts of linguistic diversity.
Still, becoming fluent in English was essential for integrating into my new society. I felt two opposing forces within me, one pushing me to perfect my English, the other fearing the erosion of my Polish fluency and the effortless command I once had. I hesitated to take the leap into the new language that Eva Hoffman described, and to this day, I haven’t fully done so. I remain deeply connected to the Polish world, particularly through my dedication to teaching my children the language. In Polish, I feel most comfortable expressing emotions, and it remains my anchor.
That doesn’t mean I have abandoned my efforts to improve my English. I continue to learn, discovering new words and idioms, often from my children. My perspective has changed, though. I no longer strive to sound like a native English speaker. I embrace my identity as a Polish American, carrying the influences of both cultures. My accent is not a flaw; it is a marker of my history, my heritage, and the diverse experiences I bring from another part of the world. It also serves as a shield, an explanation for missing cultural references, old songs, trends, or movies that passed me by because I wasn’t here when they were popular. And at times, it even provides a convenient excuse for grammatical slips.
I have accepted the fact that my Polish is no longer perfect in the way it once was. I miss out on linguistic changes in Poland, unable to hear the latest teenage slang or cultural shifts firsthand. I am never sure which English words have been adopted into Polish, so I prefer to use Polish equivalents, even if it sometimes makes me sound old-fashioned.
The important thing is that I no longer struggle. I have found my place between languages. I have learned to express myself in a way that feels true to me. With my family, I play with words in both Polish and English. Both languages are important. Both are nurtured and respected as all languages should be.
They are both mine.
Anna Kaminska
