At home, I am told that I have changed.
I’ve become too outspoken. Too independent. Too western. My opinions come too easily, and my boundaries are too strict. It’s said in a variety of ways, sometimes as a joke, sometimes as concern, and sometimes as disappointment. But the message is usually the same: I don’t quite fit into the image of myself that people recall.
On campus, the message changes, but the mood remains. Here, I am still too brown. Too alien in ways that no amount of speaking, dressing, or blending will change. I am asked where I am “really” from. My name is paused, mispronounced, and corrected. I am seen in a way that feels pervasive and unavoidable.
In between those two gaps, I learned how to reduce portions of myself to fit.
Growing up in Pakistan, home was a place where culture was loudly expressed. Language, cuisine, faith, and expectations all felt collective. I learnt early on how to behave in ways that maintained harmony and reputation. Respect implied restraint. Goodness implied obedience. Even when love was present, it was typically accompanied by conditions: be successful but not rebellious; confident but not aggressive; ambitious but still appealing.
I changed as I grew older, not on purpose, but rather by necessity. University provided me with a language to express my opinions as well as the opportunity to question them. I became more assertive, loud, and conscious of what I needed and could no longer accept. At home, change felt distant, as if I’d passed an invisible line. I wasn’t forsaking my culture, but I wasn’t expressing it in the same way.
On campus, none of that complexity mattered.
Here, my difference took precedence over my personality. I was brown before I was a student, and Muslim before I was a person. I’d grown accustomed to curiosity disguised as attention and comments presented as compliments: “You speak so well.” “You don’t seem that strict.” “You’re not like what I expected.” Every remark informed me that I was being read, evaluated, and classified (often incorrectly).
So, I learned to code switch.
I modified my tone based on where I was. At home, I moderated my views. On campus, I articulated my existence. I adjusted how much Urdu I spoke, how loudly I laughed, and how neatly I dressed. I learnt when to translate for myself and when to be quiet. Over time, this continual modification became second nature; automatic and nearly undetectable. But it was exhausting.
There’s a certain exhaustion that comes from never truly belonging someplace. From the notion that you’re always “almost” accepted but never fully claimed. At home, I was too Western to be completely understood. On campus, I was too brown to be completely recognized. In both environments, belonging felt conditional on my ability to control the comfort of others.
What hurt the most was not the misunderstanding, but the sensation that I had to earn my place wherever I went.
Code-switching is frequently recognized as a skill. In many respects, it is. It ensures your safety. It allows you to navigate environments that were not designed for you. But it comes at a cost. When you’re continuously changing who you are, it becomes difficult to tell which version of yourself is true, or if any of them can exist fully.
At times, I felt like I was seeing a performance shaped by expectations. Not Western enough to avoid examination. Not brown enough to go unchallenged at home. Simply suspended in the middle, attempting to strike a balance between allegiance and selfhood.
I assumed this meant I was failing at identification. That I needed to choose a side. To be more of one thing while doing less of another. However, as I grow older, I recognize that the in-between is not confusion, but rather context. It’s what emerges when you grow up knowing several languages, value systems, and ways of life. However, understanding this does not alleviate the tiredness.
There are days when I want rest from explaining myself. Rest from defending my choices. Rest from feeling as if my existence needs footnotes. I want spaces where I don’t have to translate my culture or compromise my principles. I want to exist without being interpreted.
I’m gradually realizing that belonging does not always imply acceptance. It does not require me to be understood by everyone in every situation. Sometimes belonging begins internally. With the decision not to shatter myself for comfort.
I am learning to sit in the middle without apologizing for it. Accepting that I may love my culture while growing out of some of its practices. That I can criticize what hurts me without abandoning what has raised me. That my identity is valid even if it is not legible.
Being too Western at home and too brown on campus has taught me resilience, even if I didn’t ask for it. It has taught me to listen intently, adjust swiftly, and manage complexity. But it’s also taught me the value of choosing myself. Allowing my identity to be multifaceted, developing, and imperfect.
I may never truly belong everywhere. And perhaps that’s okay.
Perhaps the goal is to stop shrinking in each space rather than to fit perfectly into it. To allow myself to exist without translation. To believe that the in-between is something to be experienced rather than resolved.
Because somewhere between “too Western” and “too Brown,” I’m learning to be good enough.