I grew up fluent in Hindi. At one point, I only knew Hindi. One of my most vivid childhood memories is of my mom’s coworker visiting our house. She crouched down and spoke to me in English, and I remember staring at her with absolute confusion. And I remember giggling, not out of shyness, but because I genuinely had no idea what she was saying. I told her, with all the confidence a little kid can have, “Mujhe Hindi nahi aati hai… sirf Hindi aati hai.” I don’t know Hindi. I only know Hindi. Then I took her by the hand and proudly introduced her to all my toys, of course in Hindi, gave her a room tour, and never once thought about what language I was speaking. It was just who I was.
But slowly, without realizing it, my fluency started to slip. English became the dominant language of school, friends, and everyday life. Teachers corrected my pronunciation in English, cartoons and books were in English, and my parents intentionally spoke a lot of English out of worry that we wouldn’t be as proficient in it. Now, my parents switch between the two languages but English became the default in which their kids responded, even to questions spoken in Hindi. I didn’t consciously stop speaking Hindi, it just stopped being the language I relied on. This shift mirrors what happens for many second-generation kids. The language used at home becomes secondary to the language required to succeed academically and socially, even if no one intends for that change to happen.
By the time I was well into elementary school, I understood everythingin Hindi but struggled to speak full sentences without overthinking. Calling family back home became stressful because I would rehearse what to say, speak slowly, and jump back to English when I lost confidence. The embarrassment made me switch languages to avoid messing up in front of them, and facing this language barrier every time bred a little resentment, leading to my inaction in keeping up with my Hindi speaking skills. Nevertheless, it became the pattern: understand in Hindi, respond in English, pretend it didn’t bother me, even when it really did.
My first attempt to relearn Hindi was during a summer when I downloaded Duolingo with unrealistic optimism. I relearned the alphabet, practiced reading basic words, and tried writing simple words. I wasn’t quite at writing simple sentences yet (even to this day). It felt exciting at first, like I was recovering a skill I’d misplaced. But then I fell off. Skipped a few days, then a few weeks, and suddenly half the words I had memorized to write slipped away. Learning your own language again is frustrating because you’re not starting from scratch. You’re trying to rebuild something you used to have effortlessly. I decided focusing on verbal communication is where I would feel the most improvement. It was also the most important form of communication for me and my family.
And so, I tried speaking more Hindi with my parents. Sometimes I would force myself to start a conversation in Hindi, only for them to ask me to repeat what I said because my pronunciation or grammar was off. It wasn’t their fault, but it felt discouraging. The next time, I’d switch back to English automatically so I didn’t have to repeat myself. It made me feel like my connection to them and the language had a crack in it. This was not because they didn’t understand me, but because I didn’t understand myself.
Things shifted because of someone who was also learning their language, Punjabi, and going through the exact same frustrations. We made it a part of our routine to retell our days to each other in our languages. There are some overlaps in the languages so we understood the gist and could keep the conversation going by asking more questions. Sometimes the sentences were perfect, sometimes they made no sense. We’d stop mid-story to ask each other how to conjugate something or whether a word sounded correct. These conversations made learning feel less isolating. They reminded me that this journey isn’t a personal failure, it made room for a precious part of my day, where Icould share this time and space with a loved one and navigate this shared experience that many immigrant kids who grew up caught between two languages go through.
Calling family back home also became easier once I practiced, embraced the slip-ups and repetition, and stopped expecting myself to be perfect. I practiced small talk in Hindi even when I got stuck. I accepted that my accent would slip sometimes. I noticed that the more I tried, the more comfortable they became sticking to Hindi with me instead of switching to English. And every now and then, my relatives would say, “tumhari hindi in dinon achchhi lag rahi hai.” Your Hindi is sounding good these days. This meant more to me than they probably realized.
Today, I’m not exactly where I would want to be, but I’m better. I can hold long conversations without freezing. I understand idioms I used to avoid. I get praised for small improvements, which is funny but encouraging. Most importantly, I no longer feel disconnected from a part of myself that I always assumed would be there.
If you’re like me, and you’ve been trying to relearn your mother tongue, or even just trying to use it more, take this as your sign to continue (or start). You don’t need to be fluent. You don’t need to sound like your parents or grandparents. You don’t need to be perfect for it to matter. You just need to try. And know that the discomfort, the awkward sentences, the moments where you want to switch back to English, they’re all part of the process, not proof that you’re failing. There is nothing wrong with rebuilding something you lost slowly. There is nothing shameful about wanting to reconnect with a part of yourself you didn’t choose to let go of.
Losing your mother tongue doesn’t mean you’ve lost your culture, your family, or your identity. But relearning it can strengthen all of those things. It builds confidence, creates genuine connection, and helps you reclaim something you didn’t choose to let go of.
If anything, relearning Hindi has reminded me of what I want for my future. I want my kids to know the language I grew up in. I want them to feel connected to the culture that shaped me. I don’t want traditions, stories, or ways of communicating to disappear simply because I was too embarrassed to try again.
Relearning your mother tongue is slow and imperfect, but it’s so worth it.