15/08/2026
People who grew up inside one language rarely have to think about this. But I imagine people who grew up between languages think about it constantly, maybe every time a feeling shows up wearing the wrong words, or no words at all.
Each of mine holds a different part of me. My grief is fluent in Arabic, my first language, and it refuses to translate. My thinking has a French accent; I was educated in French, and the reasoning, the working-things-out, still happens there. English is where I work and where I trained, where most of my friendships live, the language I explain myself in. And Portuguese is where I actually live now. I'm still learning it, still reaching for words mid-sentence, but I've grown attached in a way I didn't plan for. It's becoming home before I've finished learning to speak it.
Then there's the part of me that doesn't fit in any of them. That's where the hands come in. Working with paint or clay isn't a hobby for people who live between languages; it's translation. It's what you reach for when the feeling is real, but every language you own comes up short.
I hold sessions in English and Arabic; I think and feel across French and Portuguese. But the part of the workshop that actually matters happens somewhere underneath all four, in the paint, in the weight of the clay, in what the hands understand before the mouth catches up.
If you live between languages, or between homes, or between versions of yourself, these creative experiences were built with you in mind.