12 years ago I moved to the United States. I remember the violence of having to be reborn in a place where everything is different: the food, the language, the culture, social norms... standing at the grocery store, not recognizing food items or brands, not having any idea what to pick and what to trust. Having difficulties communicating, too. The change was exciting of course, but not easy... I bought this small pink vintage scarf in Soho, and she became part of my first steps in New York. It was supposed to be a new me. But in reality, it was old me in a new place. 😅 The language thing... that’s been a journey in itself. I remember being so witty in French, and I was a great writer, but in English I was sluggish, hesitant. To this day, I’m always worried I’ll say the wrong word, or be misunderstood. Living away from everything I knew, my family, friends, a country, was made easy because I was with my fiancé, but it’s also one of the most challenging things we’ve done. It’s so hard to be uprooted and to live in a place where it feels like nobody really knows you the way family or old friends do. If I died tomorrow, who would even notice? I’m lucky, I’m white and privileged, and I come from France. That alone facilitated my connecting with others. But this journey is a whole beast. And today as I look around, uprooted once more since I left New York for Los Angeles, I wonder: where do I even belong?