It is never easy to leave home. When I boarded the airplane from Kerala to Rome, I carried more than just suitcases. I carried memories steeped in monsoon rains, the scent of jasmine in my mother’s hair, the gentle rhythm of Malayalam echoing in every street corner of my childhood. I remembered coconut palms swaying in the warm breeze, the clinking of tea glasses at local stalls, and the comforting perfume of spices rising from my mother’s kitchen. I stepped onto that plane with a heart full of hope, a chest tight with fear, and a head swirling with dreams that hadn’t yet taken shape.
Chaotic, majestic, and unapologetically alive, Rome greeted me like a whirlwind. The moment I stepped off the plane, I was struck by the city’s grandeur. History whispered from every corner, its architecture ancient and regal, its streets alive with stories of emperors and artists. But beneath this beauty was a wave of disorientation. I couldn’t understand the language, couldn’t decipher the system, and couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling of being completely out of place.
Having come from Kerala, where community is deeply ingrained in daily life, I experienced significant loneliness in the beginning. Back home, neighbours knew your name, aunties dropped by unannounced with snacks, and someone was always around to offer tea or a sympathetic ear. In Rome, while people were polite and warm in their own way, there was a noticeable distance. Conversations were brief, smiles often reserved. I missed the spontaneous warmth of home, the shared glances, the sense of being instantly understood.
Relocating to a different country involves more than a simple change of address; it represents a transformation of your very being. I had to learn how to live all over again. From figuring out the metro system to dealing with bureaucracy, from adjusting to cultural norms to navigating simple conversations, everything was new. I stumbled often. I got on the wrong bus, misread instructions, and mispronounced words that left people confused or amused. I often felt like an outsider peering through a glass window close enough to observe, but too distant to connect.
Slowly, but surely, a change began to emerge.
In a quiet alley, I discovered a tiny café where the barista eventually came to know my order. I found comfort in the routine of Roman life, long walks through Trastevere, the lively buzz of markets, deep conversations over espresso that stretched into the afternoon. I made friends, some fellow expats, some locals, who laughed with me when I butchered Italian phrases and stood by me during moments of homesickness. Piece by piece, the city began to feel less foreign and more like something I could belong to.
Some moments, however, were not warm.
Subtle manifestations of racism existed, even when not explicitly expressed. Sometimes it came in the form of a lingering stare, a hesitant handshake, or assumptions based on my skin tone and accent. Other times, it was the quiet exclusion from conversations or the slow realization that some people expected less of me simply because I came from a different part of the world. It was a strange sort of invisibility, being present, yet unseen. These moments hurt. They made me question my place, my identity, and whether I truly belonged here.
But in that pain, something stronger took root, a voice inside me that refused to be silenced. A voice that reminded me of my story, my strength, and the richness of the culture I came from. I realized I didn’t need to shrink myself to fit into someone else’s idea of belonging. I could carry my identity with pride and still learn to embrace a new one.
On days when I miss Kerala the most, I cook traditional dishes that fill my apartment with familiar aromas. I call my family and speak in Malayalam, laughing at the same jokes I’ve heard a hundred times. But I also relish Italian life, the passion for art, the joy in simplicity, the beauty found in an ordinary moment. Rome has taught me to slow down, to appreciate, and to breathe.
Living between two cultures isn’t always easy. Some days, I feel suspended between worlds like I’m not quite rooted in either. But I’ve come to see this space not as a void, but as a bridge. It’s where I can be wholly myself, honoring both where I came from and where I am growing into.
My journey from Kerala to Rome was more than a change of address, it was a transformation. It taught me adaptability, resilience, and the courage to redefine home. It showed me that growth often starts at the edge of discomfort, and that strength is built in silence, in solitude, in stumbling and standing up again.
To anyone considering a similar path: hold your heritage close, but don’t be afraid to expand. Let the world surprise you. It may be bigger, kinder, and more beautiful than you ever imagined.
