I’ve been learning English since fourth grade, having slowly mastered ordering in a restaurant with the words “I would like to have…”. When it came to my studies, I could follow my professors’ lectures just fine. Sure, the technical terms during a whiskey-museum tour might not all have been familiar to me, but then again, they probably wouldn’t have been in German either.
As for small talk in English… please. I’m practically a small-talk Casanova. Especially after years of binge-watching Netflix shows in their original language, of course. But, as is so often the case, that isn’t quite the whole truth. I realised that I’d probably just pushed many of my feelings about it aside. Because thinking too much about language, and especially about how well I manage to use it, would only open a box of insecurities I wasn’t too keen to confront.
“Do you even know how smart I am in Spanish?”
That’s what Gloria says in Modern Family, and I think it perfectly captures the feeling I’ve been trying to describe. In my case, it wouldn’t be Spanish but German.
Years of lessons, time abroad, and reading English novels – none of that puts a dent in the feeling that my English vocabulary is a fraction of my German one. Sure, I can express myself. But my thoughts often sound so much sharper in German, while their expressions in English feel like cheap imitations. I was reminded of this again last week, when I had to give a spontaneous presentation about my dissertation topic. In my head, it was a rhetorical masterpiece. Out loud, it felt like I was speaking with the vocabulary of a toddler. Where were all those complex, well-formed thoughts? All the beautifully intricate German words that would have fit so perfectly? And yet, beneath the frustration, there was also a strange sense of pride. Pride in simply being able to speak and study in another language at all. It’s a delicate balance: admiration for your achievements and irritation at your limits.
It took me a while to come to terms with not being able to express myself as precisely in English as I can in German – not just academically, but personally. Sometimes, in conversation, I feel as if parts of my personality got lost in translation. Irony, for instance, doesn’t always survive the linguistic border. If I wasn’t particularly funny in German, I’m certainly not in English.
Then, there are the moments when I don’t just fail to be witty, but fail to even join a conversation as my internal translator searches for the right words, only to find the moment has passed.
There’s also the cultural side to it. Language isn’t just political – every word carries social and cultural baggage. A German word might be perfectly normal at home, while its English equivalent sounds outdated or inappropriate. The funny thing is, when you think about it, every language seems to come with its own unwritten rules. Which makes it, apart from my sometimes-questionable vocabulary, even harder to know whether using a certain word actually sounds right.
“Is it really cool to say ‘slay’? Or does it sound a little off when it comes from someone who’s not a native speaker?”
I’ve had that thought more times than I’d like to admit.
Then there are phrases that can lead to genuine misunderstandings. “Let’s meet at half three,” a classmate said to me the other day. To me, it was perfectly clear what she meant – or so I thought: half past two, the German equivalent. Luckily, there was a nice café nearby where I could spend an hour waiting for her.
Language accompanies us everywhere – in our studies, our work, our relationships. Even our thoughts (however absurd they may be) are words, and therefore language. We think and feel and try to translate those abstract processes into something tangible, using language as our tool. It isn’t just a social phenomenon – it’s something deeply personal. Maybe that’s why I noticed, especially during those first days of university, how people in my programme seemed to cluster instinctively around their native language. When the language changes, our thinking changes too. In English, I think in shorter, more pragmatic ways. Meanwhile, in German, my language is complex, nuanced, sometimes hopelessly tangled – and I like both versions of myself.
So what does that mean for my master’s degree in another language? Ten months spent either only with people who speak the same native language as I do, or as a cheap translation of myself, never quite able to show who I really am – academically or personally? No, I don’t think so. Because, if anything, it’s precisely these challenges that make it so exciting. There’s this new world – built through another language – that studying in English allows me to explore and understand. To do that, you have to give it time. You have to stay open, face the challenges, and, perhaps most importantly, never be too hard on yourself. I often forget that communication is more than just language. There’s tone, facial expression, gesture, all the things that fill the gaps between words, no matter the language.
You learn to speak and to listen between the lines. That’s what makes studying and living in another language beautiful. It’s what studying in another language teaches you: understanding doesn’t rely on flawless language, but rather presence, patience, and a bit of grace for yourself. Finding new words and sometimes even new versions of yourself. You might like the other you just as much.
