Tonight, on the edge of a new year, I think about how words feel different here and back home.

At home, we spoke straight as arrows. No sugar-coating, no maybe-later, no beating around the bush. If soup needed salt, we said so. If plans were made, they were real – not those floating “we should someday” promises that drift in American air.

Here in the U.S., people wrap their words in soft paper. They dance around what they mean. Someone says “let’s get coffee sometime,” and I still catch myself reaching for my calendar. Old habits die hard.

The missing hits hardest in small moments. A burst of my language on the subway, sharp and clear. The look on my neighbor’s face when I tell her – plain and simple – that her music is too loud. These moments are like bridges between my two lives.

What I miss isn’t just the words, but how it felt to speak without filters. Back home, being direct meant you cared enough to be honest. Here, I’m learning to soften my edges while keeping my truth. My American friends are starting to get it – they see now that my straightforward way is its own kind of kindness.

Funny thing is, I’m changing too. When I call home, my family laughs at my new “American pauses” – those little gaps before I speak that I never used to have. But maybe these pauses aren’t so bad. They’re like the space between years, between hello and goodbye, between who I was and who I’m becoming.

As 2024 ends, I stand between two ways of being. Direct as my old home, smooth as my new one. It’s not always easy, but it’s real. And sometimes, that’s the best thing words can be.