Bittersweet Breaths & Memories

Musings on life in the liminal space.

“Writing is the act of trying to create a record of your understanding of something.” Sheila Liming ( Author of Hanging Out: The Radical Power of Killing Time )

Reentry this year has been challenging. It is always physically demanding, but this time, the emotional pain is even more so. I have been mulling it over for the last few months, trying to understand why it has been so hard. After all, I have been making the same journey for over two decades. Shouldn't it be becoming easier?

But I don’t think it will ever be. I have concluded over the last few months that my life will always be in two places, two halves, two sides of the same coin, two identities, and yet one person. There will always be moments in my life where one identity overtakes the other, and as I have grown older ( and perhaps wiser), I have allowed the overlap. For the longest time, I held the overlap at bay.

I was scared, no, terrified! It felt comfortable to me to keep the two identities separate. It felt easier, and I felt more in control, but the reality was that it was far from easy. If anything, it was too hard. It was too hard to constantly live in separate worlds and try to be the best at both; it seemed easier to let the overlap happen.

I have been “trying to create a record of my understanding of this something for the last few years.” I have been trying to make sense of my life and the people's emotions, traditions, and colors that make up my life, and I want to live my life in an abundant way where I am, Where I allow myself to feel the feelings that I want to feel without fear and shame. 

You see, being an immigrant is my identity. I never gave it much thought as a child. But childhood innocence often blinds you to the way others view you. As life has taken me from one country to another, I realized how I saw the world would always be different. And others would always view me as different. Or perhaps the outsider.

Every time we travel back to India, there is a shift in my head and heart, the preparation for the time we would spend there. And by that, I mean the change in behavior, the heart attitude, and the style of living. It is not always an easy transition.

Some people will say this transition is natural, and they are right. If we live within two cultures, it is natural for us to keep shifting. But if we start assimilating and getting used to one of the cultures, moving out of it, even temporarily, can be pretty unsettling. Every immigrant always has a choice: to feel frustrated by the need to assimilate or to lean into it as much as possible without losing parts of yourself.

It takes time and wisdom to look at one’s life and perhaps not linger in the sadness of loss or being an outsider and instead have a sense of humour about being the outsider, being the foreigner.

This year, in particular, hit me harder than others. It could have been partly because we were going for a more extended trip; we had a family event to plan and attend, and this would be the third straight year where we did not celebrate Christmas in our home with our little family. When you live as an immigrant, the traditions you build become dear to you, and giving them up is tough. Having our Christmas tree up, doing all the little things our children are used to, and meeting the friends who have become family over decades are part of our lives.

It was brutally heartbreaking not to be able to do any of that this year. Even having the tree up for two weeks seemed like a waste of time. I would not be cooking the dishes I always do or watching the old Christmas movies we always watched, and I also knew in my heart Christmas services would not be the same. I was angry and grieving all the same time. But I also knew that going to India and being with our family and friends there was deeply valuable and much needed for me and my children. I knew the decision to go was right, but I was still frustrated.

Choices like this are not unique to immigrants. People living in the same country often experience such decisions. But crossing cultures and sharing others’ traditions can be a little challenging. There is always an element of sacrifice, of giving up what you want for the greater good. It is hard but can also be deeply rewarding if you allow it to be.

There will always be discomfort and challenges, and our selfish human nature will always rear its ugly head. But we can lean into the discomfort, set boundaries for ourselves, and embrace the good. I have learnt over the years that resisting change always causes pain. And often, I end up being unhappy and causing pain to the loved ones around me. I do believe you have a right to your emotions and feelings.

The thing about being an immigrant is that all too often, you can find yourself being the one responsible for others’ happiness and well-being, especially the ones you left behind. If you choose not to stay in the land of your origin, you sometimes need to pay the “price” by making sure that when you return, you make everyone happy - or at least meet them where they are. An unspoken emotion often hangs in the air, a tension you want to slice into. You are the one who left, you went away, you changed, you left us behind - all of those screams inside your head, and those words are not uttered, but they are emoted! People want you to come back “the same.” Everyone is fearful of change. Change is hard; it’s complicated, but change is also constant.

Every time I return, I want to toe the line to ensure I have not changed. To give people a sense or feeling of comfort that I have not changed, to meet them where they need to be met. Let them know that I am still the same no matter how far away I may have gone. But sometimes, that process can feel like carrying a rock on your back. Maybe it is my personality, but hiding parts of yourself from those who should love you unconditionally is painful. There are things I want to say, feelings I want to share, and places I want to explore, but I hold it in for fear of hurting the ones I left behind. There have been times I have wanted to explode and allow all my emotions to gush out and fall to the floor, but I am terrified of how people will respond to me. So, I stay silent, swallow the words and the feelings, and breathe through them, almost like a mother forced to give birth in silence using only shallow breaths till she holds life in her arms.

This year, reentry was hard. I remember the day before we returned home, we were at a gathering filled with loved ones. It had been years since we had all been together, and it felt surreal. For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to feel all the emotions. I wanted to be in that moment. I knew that a moment like that rarely comes around, and I wanted to savour it. Allowing yourself to feel emotions that can create deep joy and sorrow at the same time is something that can only be defined as “bittersweet.”

Photo by Malhar Garud on Unsplash

In her book Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole, Susan Cain writes, “Poignancy, she told me, is the richest feeling humans experience, one that gives meaning to life—and it happens when you feel happy and sad at the same time. It’s the state you enter when you cry tears of joy—which tend to come during precious moments suffused with their imminent ending. When we tear up at that beloved child splashing in a rain puddle, she explains, we aren’t simply happy: “We’re also appreciating, even if it’s not explicit, that this time of life will end; that good times pass as well as bad ones; that we’re all going to die in the end. I think that being comfortable with this is adaptive. That’s emotional development.”

And for the first time that day, I allowed myself to feel what I felt without guilt, shame, or fear.

I don’t believe I will ever find a moment to live outside this liminal space. It is the calling of my life and the lives of my children. There are moments of delirious delight, and then there are crippling moments of uncertainty, fear, worry, and times when I catch myself afraid to breathe. Because breathing seems like living a life, I am terrified of living. Perhaps I was always meant to return; would I breathe a sigh of relief if I did go back? Or would I always find myself lost between two worlds? Never quite feeling settled and always wondering.

I don’t know. I probably never will, and that is life. I will learn to embrace the sadness instead of forcing smiles. In Susan Cain's words, I will “learn to appreciate the states of longing, poignancy, and sorrow; an acute awareness of passing time; and a curiously piercing joy at the beauty of the world.”