My identity gained a new layer the very same day I became a mother in this foreign land. I was no longer a visitor or a passing guest. Me, the immigrant.
It is plausible I was living as a tourist before that moment, borrowing experiences, decoding only the surface of my interactions, understanding as a foreigner my surroundings.
The birth of my son was a cultural experience in itself. A traumatic cultural experience. A medical traumatic cultural experience. Marked the day I started my path as a healthcare interpreter and translator, literally and figuratively. Nobody, I kept telling myself, should go through this, nobody needs to feel so small, everybody needs to have a voice. It also marked the day I realized I needed to find a way back to my psychologist-self. A part of my self lost with the bureaucracy of titles, diplomas, and licenses across borders. Identities that do not translate.
Becoming an immigrant is like diving into forever unknown differences and the never-ending wonders of the new, after new, experiences with no common past. Is rediscovering yourself step by step, is unveiling what you always stood for, day after day. In my personal and professional pathway, mindfulness was my key. The journey was exactly like coming back home.
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