The disclosure of immigration

Sometimes I realize I no longer have anchors.

Nothing dramatic — just that nothing feels fixed anymore. Places, people, language — all temporary.

I seem steady from the outside, even composed. But inside there’s constant adjustment, a quiet calibration to stay aligned.

It’s not anxiety — more like the fatigue of continuous translation: of myself, of context, of tone.

Immigration, maybe, is life without a stable point of balance.

Not escape, not search — just movement between versions of oneself.

To look for anchors, you first have to admit there are none.

Not imagine that the right country or language will restore them.Anchors don’t return — they’re rebuilt, from small things you barely notice.

Sometimes it’s routine — breakfast, a route, a familiar face🧓

Sometimes it’s the ability to stay still when nothing feels yours.

Anchors are not found, they’re constructed.

And maybe stability isn’t about standing firm —but about not fearing the shifting ground beneath you🏙️