Linguistic relativity is the theory that the (structure of the) language you speak influences the way you think (shout out to my WR151 teacher)
Which is a nice academic way of saying:
Maybe I feel too much because I speak too many languages.

In English, we say “I miss you.”
In Hindi, we say “Tum yaad aate ho” – you come to mind.
In Spanish, “Te extraño” – I estrange you from me.

Each of these has a slightly different ache.

And that’s the problem.
Once you realize your sadness changes depending on the language you think it in,
you start to wonder if your identity does too.

In one tongue, I’m composed. Articulate.
In another, I’m softer. I use more metaphors. I say things like “My heart is heavy” instead of “I’m upset.”
Sometimes I cry in English, but only mourn in Hindi.
Sometimes I dream in languages I can barely speak anymore.

Linguistic relativity makes me emotionally unstable because it reminds me that I am a plural person.
That words are not just words, they are rules for how we’re allowed to feel.
And that some feelings don’t survive translation.

When someone says “there’s no word for that in English,” I don’t just nod academically.
I panic a little.
Because if there’s no word, does the feeling still count?

Do I still count?

The more languages I try to master, the more I feel like I belong to none of them.
Like I’m always speaking in borrowed grief.

Linguistic relativity doesn’t just influence thought.
It infects it.
It divides it.
And sometimes, on the worst nights, it makes me wish I were fluent in silence.

But maybe it’s okay.
Maybe the feeling doesn’t need a perfect word to be real.
Maybe it just needs to be felt, fully and without apology.
Because even if my grief is scattered across dialects,
my healing speaks in all of them.

And on the days I can’t find the right language,
I write.
And somehow, that’s enough.