Welcome to: Between.

Essays from the space between languages, cultures, and lives

The days have been long and heavy and lonely.

Even when people tell me to smile or tell me to be grateful for all I have, I am ashamed to say that I cannot feel it authentically, and I don't have the energy to pretend anymore.

It's a familiar feeling.

One that has followed me, marked me, my whole life.

The feeling of being split down the middle.

Not being able to fit comfortably into any space.

Not seeing anything I recognise or which recognises me.

It's true that the feeling is fleeting, a light momentary affliction. Not a reason to lose heart. But yet, I must allow it to pass through me, as it is. And sometimes we have no choice but to do it alone - there is no one else willing to withstand the awkwardness and silence of the process.

Since I moved to France, it has amplified the throbbing wound deep within that I do not belong to the world.

It started when I was young, being born to eurasian parents, growing up hearing my parents say "back home" and knowing that they are referring to India. The place which, at that time, I had never been but dreamed of. I adored Indian women with their beautiful dark hair, deep eyes and olive skin - three things I do not have. They seemed to have a certain elegance about them, the way they carried themselves with respect and a knowing of who they were. Three more things I did not have.

I had fair skin with freckles, red hair, eyes that were sometimes blue and sometimes green. I was lanky and fat at the same time, awkward, with eyes too big for my face and a nose too long. I was the only pale little girl in the family, but I didn't want any of what I had. I wanted to be an Indian woman, wearing a colourful saree, with dark, defined and striking features. Many of us never like who we are, the gifts we were given naturally, I suppose.

I would grow up being called a liar when I said my parents were Indian, or adopted, or better yet, the daughter of oppressors. I wouldn't have the opportunity to tell them that my parents grew up in Indian communities, and that their life was no dream. Too light skinned for India, too dark skinned for Australia. Even though they spoke English, Australians would always ask them about their accent and never really understand it when they told the truth of where they were from. So much so, my father started to answer the question with "I come from the planet earth - the same as you."

People rarely ever asked me that question, though. I looked as Australian as they come. But after a little while, people would realise that I wasn't really the same. My parents were too strict, I never went out after school and could never sleep over. I wasn't ever "Indian" neither was I "Australian." I was just weird.

I always felt trapped, not able to be my true self and thought that I would never find anyone who could understand me. After several failed attempts to fit into either the Indian, Australian or Angloindian communities... I decided to leave the country. Fitting in wasn't for me, so I thought I'd embrace it.

As I travelled, I learned more.

I learned the world was bigger than I thought, that there were many "types" of people and that in fact the word "type" would never be sufficient to describe an individual.

I travelled around Asia, even visiting India, and learned that I would always be judged for how I looked on the outside. There was nothing I could do to stop it. So I stopped trying to bare my soul or share my story… putting myself on the line for connection, just for the satisfaction of having someone understand me. I decided to keep the secrets laying underneath my appearance as a treasure, opening it only to those who I felt would take the time to know me. It was a long wait.

Then I travelled around Europe and I learned something different. I learned that everyone felt the way I did - and that perhaps I was judging others in the same way they had judged me. I assumed that people felt belonging when they were born in a country where their family had spent generations - I was wrong.

The feeling of displacement affects not only those who have migrated, but also those who have stayed in the same place.

When one person is displaced, the whole world feels it. The feeling of not belonging is not unique to an individual, but a transient feeling passing through all of us.

Some of us brush it off quickly, but others recognise parts of this feeling of rejection within ourselves and therefore hold onto it for longer. Neither approach is right or wrong, it is simply the way of things.

When I moved to France, this feeling of being between cultures, languages and lives inspired me to start this publication: Between.

The things I have witnessed here made me realise that I wanted to share my inner feelings which, if communicated, might help someone to have the same realisations I did from my travels. I invite anyone and everyone to contact me if they feel the inner pull to share their story.

It’s time to open up.

To let people see part of our inner world in a safe space like this one.

To trust that these little stories, when taken together, have the power to change our lives.