A Language of Losing and Belonging (With Subtitles)
© Rodolfo Clix
In her personal essay, Yvette Metodieva Poumpalova explores the impact of language on identity and belonging as a second-generation immigrant. Reflecting on her experiences of balancing her Bulgarian heritage with her Belgian upbringing, she examines how learning her mother tongue has influenced her sense of home, connected her with family, and reshaped her understanding of self.
So much of our world-view as adults is shaped during childhood. Our tastes are influenced by the foods we ate, our language skills moulded by what we hear, and the community in which we grow up transforms into our idea of home. As we grow older, language often serves as a break from these comforts, offering experiences that become ingrained in our memory. However, for some of us, learning our language is a reason to journey back to our parents' homeland. What happens when you’re raised in an environment where the meaning of ‘home’ is always shifting? When language not only changes your sense of belonging, but broadens your perspective on loneliness at the same time?
“The repetitive journeys, as love-filled as they were by the people who welcomed me in their arms, took their toll, leaving me questioning where I truly belonged.”
Born in Belgium to Bulgarian parents, by age six, I had already crossed borders countless times, learning Bulgarian before starting first grade. At that age, the transitions felt normal, limited to car rides between relatives’ homes and the mossy gates of my grandparents’ village garden. I was unaware of the loneliness I would later feel, surrounded as I was by a community, part of a global, ever-wandering tribe. The repetitive journeys, as love-filled as they were by the people who welcomed me in their arms, took their toll, leaving me questioning where I truly belonged.
Never staying long enough in one place, I felt emotionally indebted to my elders — constantly saying goodbye to grandparents, aunts, and uncles multiple times a year. It became routine, but I carried a pit of guilt in my stomach for all the time missed, conversations never had, and people unmet. In my own way, I used the guilt as it became my motivator to stay connected with my family. It made me pick up the phone each Sunday, spend most of my holidays on faraway visits, and stuff suitcases with gifts as if they would make up for something I felt I lacked. The guilt was my promise to them that I would work hard, do well, and spend my success on the family.
As I grew up, the world I was looking at had Dutch subtitles. I only had the option to switch my audio setting to Bulgarian, since I taught myself to read and write at a much older age. I continued to travel between the two countries I called ‘home.’ It wasn’t until my early twenties, after settling into a career linked to travel, reconnecting with old friends, and discovering the solace poetry provided in wandering thoughts, that I began to ponder how my upbringing — marked by constant change and adaptation—affected my adult life.
A second-generation immigrant is defined as "a person born and residing in a country where at least one of their parents previously entered as a migrant." People with a migration background are often considered more vulnerable to loneliness due to factors like limited proficiency in the host country's language, discrimination, a weak sense of belonging, and cultural conflicts. In my case, I had the privilege to move freely between communities and countries. I could spend Friday afternoon with my high school classmates in an Antwerp neighbourhood, dreaming about university applications. And by Saturday morning, if I wished it, to be discussing these dreams with my cousin while we shared black chai and walked the yellow cobblestones of downtown Sofia. But I do remember feeling great frustration at the time when trying to translate the subjects of the sociology bachelor's degree I had chosen, discussing disability studies and how it influences society’s architecture. Within that topic, I was met with her knowledge on our capital’s struggling past under the rule of larger imperiums, naming buildings and statues of heroes I desperately wished I knew more about.
In a desperate move to even out the knowledge-playing field, I shared more about my research study — a two-hundred-page documentation that was the main focus of student brain. But the depth of my mind was lost in translation, struggling to find the technical terms of how I chose to go about my quantitative research. And all my cousin could do was wish me luck with my findings I was unable to provide her with. Despite being close to graduation and considering myself accomplished, at that moment, I felt my family still saw me as the ‘illiterate cousin’ because I struggled with the language.
“Throughout the years, we, my friends and I, had found each other in the busy streets of our cities where we had not chosen to be born. We did not just feel loneliness for ourselves, but for the generations before us. Every human being has a need to belong. ”
Still, it took me starting university to realise that we are allowed to feel more emotions other than gratitude towards our family. I finally began to notice a shared sense of loneliness in myself and friends with similar experiences as second-generation immigrants. Throughout the years, we, my friends and I, had found each other in the busy streets of our cities where we had not chosen to be born. We did not just feel loneliness for ourselves, but for the generations before us. Every human being has a need to belong. My mother often speaks about this while sitting in the garden she so carefully cares for, emphasising the importance of building a strong foundation for her children. Although she has now spent more years in Belgium than Bulgaria, I’m not sure if she has ever felt truly at home in either place. As I struggle with my own feelings of loneliness, I see it mirrored in her hands: to provide a home for us and only hope it is good enough. Her bravery in moving to a new country has inspired me to honour her sacrifices.
In my early twenties, I spent my free time between writing essays and attending university seminars reading short books in Bulgarian. To this day, I still find anthropology notes tucked inside my copy of “The Adventures of Bai Ganyo,” a classic Bulgarian 1895 novel by Aleko Konstantinov about a comical yet poignant character traveling across Europe while dealing with his Bulgarian identity. It was confronting to realise how far behind I was in my mother tongue, needing a finger to follow the sentence I was reading so that I wouldn't lose the word my tongue was carefully trying to pronounce.
Years were spent visiting the homeland, which turned into a game where relatives asked me to repeat the Cyrillic alphabet out loud. I discovered a new sense of pride in them as they beamed, watching the mute cousin from abroad putting in the effort to learn my language. Suddenly, my Bulgarian illiteracy became the one thing that connected me with so many people in this faraway community, both emotionally and geographically. As I felt more and more uncomfortable, realising I needed to exchange my trusted Dutch subtitles with broken, inaccurate Bulgarian ones, loneliness was replaced with a sense of belonging.
“This journey of learning my mother tongue allowed me to converse with my parents as equals, rather than mere visitors to their country of birth.”
Second-generation immigrants like me often encounter each other globally, sharing experiences of guilt and worry about our parents. Antwerp was home, while Sofia became a playground where I immersed myself in the culture. I explored book markets and befriended the vendors, connected with friends over foods we couldn’t find in our day-to-day lunch boxes, and went out on dates where those taking me out were always curious about my accent. This journey of learning my mother tongue allowed me to converse with my parents as equals, rather than mere visitors to their country of birth. So, upon completing my university degrees, I acknowledged my parents’ influence in my thesis, despite my father's reluctance – or rather inability – to read it completely.
Learning the language beyond my childhood proficiency was an act of self-care – my sense of loneliness stemmed from not being able to express myself properly. So, as I spent years reading children's books, struggling to take on more difficult literature on my grandmother's recommendation, texting the first boy from Sofia I ever had a crush on in Cyrillic — my language corrected amid flirtations — it was a practice of embracing my heritage. This effort slowly replaced my guilt with pride — pride for who I was and chose to be, expressed in any subtitles I wished.
“I realised that the discomfort I felt while learning our language mirrored their own struggles.”
But not too long ago, at twenty-eight, I unexpectedly grasped the depth of loneliness beyond mere translation. As my elders aged, especially Baba (баба - grandmother) and Djadо (дядо - grandfather), my sense of guilt fuelled again this need to care for them. I visited more often, carried groceries, and listened to their endless stories. I realised that the discomfort I felt while learning our language mirrored their own struggles. As my language skills improved, so did my ability to engage with my elders, challenging their perspectives with my own.
Generational gaps are often marked by differing experiences, a universal phenomenon. But for me, this gap revealed a specific cultural difference: while I spent a lifetime nurturing a soft, patient language, my elders' words now seemed harsh and unforgiving. The empowerment I found in expressing myself was met with nodding heads, a painful acknowledgment. I was asked not to question, ushered to stay silent. Now that I finally believed I was able to hold a conversation as equals, they did not treat me as such. So came again the confirmation, that a language is much more than that alone. It holds your values and morals, some of which I no longer share with my grandparents — or perhaps never did. As I grew into myself, I distanced from them, creating a new layer of loneliness. My idea of home shifted once again.n.
Had I been born into an environment where my knowledge of our language was not so limited, I might not have had the space to make for all the words of softness I carry with me today. As my understanding of Bulgarian grows, I wonder if I will become more like my elders. Can language carry conservatism, strictness, or division? Or will I come to understand their nods? Because, not long ago, I stumbled upon a collection of letters exchanged between my grandparents as young lovers, along with postcards from distant friends in the 1960s. Despite struggling to read their cursive Cyrillic script, it brought me joy to see the soft words they used — words we might have shared if we had met at the same age. Aware of the fact they were not meant for me, comparing their bundle of letters and envelopes with my own collection of unique words on paper, notes with inside jokes, postcards from loved ones from the 21st century, I reminded myself to hold on to that joy.
As I no longer speak with my grandparents, as we have no common words to share, language has still managed to transform an intergenerational guilt for my elders into pride of my own being. For a second-generation immigrant child, whose home is always shifting, mourning loss happens silently while embracing identity proudly.
As tradition shifts with me, collecting it in words, and speaking a language of loss and belonging, I wonder what the next generation will make of me.
Yvette Metodieva Poumpalova is a second-generation Bulgarian immigrant from Antwerp, Belgium. Passionate about all things writing, amateur in them all, she explores themes of identity, language, and intergenerational connections. With a perspective shaped by her multicultural upbringing, she delves into the nuances of belonging and the transformative power of words.