EARTHLINGS

After a hectic jumpstart of the term, and a long period of adaptation—Philly managed to become, or better said, feel familiar. Not home, but a checkpoint. Classes continued getting more difficult as each week passed, which came as a shock, since in my home university a course usually lasts four months and the pace is often slower. Midterms two weeks into a term is not really something that I can say I’m used to, but a strong foundation and organization at the beginning of the term allowed me to keep up with everything, and I can proudly say that I’m excelling.

Wanting a break from the academic rush, I decided to take a weekend trip to Washington, D.C., to witness Inauguration Day—an experience I imagined would be a firsthand look at democracy in motion. But reality had other plans. The event was canceled, leaving the city quieter than I had expected, its streets carrying an odd stillness. Without the grand spectacle, the patriotic speeches, and the crowds swelling in unity or division, I was left with a different version of the city—one that hummed at a slower frequency, yet volatile, accompanied by political dissonance. With nowhere to be, I ended up at the National Gallery of Art, wandering through its vast halls, letting centuries of human expression wash over me.

Maybe that’s what I needed more than the political theater, a quiet reminder of what we leave behind when time swallows us whole. Art, unlike us, remains. I walked past portraits of men, battle scenes that glorified war, the beauty of light captured by impressionism,  religious imagery that promised salvation, and abstract pieces that made me wonder if I was meant to understand them at all. And in every room, in every piece, there was proof of us—of humanity, messy and loud and contradictory.

It’s chaotic, isn’t it? How we, as a species, decided at some point that simply being earthlings wasn’t enough. We drew borders on a planet that never needed them. We created categories, names, and definitions so specific, that we forgot we all come from the same organism. We fragmented ourselves into nations, forging identities so intricately that now, stepping outside of your own predefined box means feeling like an imposter. I don’t like the word alien—it feels distant, cold, otherworldly. But if I’m being honest, that’s exactly how I feel most days. A satellite without an orbit, floating through this experience, close enough to observe, never quite belonging. I try, though. I try to fit in, to wear the human American skin and move through the world as if it’s my own. I say “How’s it going?” instead of “How are you?” I nod at strangers when I pass them. I order my coffee the way I hear others do, adjusting my accent slightly, just enough to not have to repeat myself. I talk about the Eagles even though I don’t know a thing about football. It’s not a deception, not exactly. It’s adaptation. It’s survival. It’s an attempt at assimilation while knowing there will always be a background—a voice, an instinct, a memory that keeps me tethered to somewhere else.

And that somewhere else? It feels farther every day.

Maybe that’s what makes this experience bittersweet, yet so interesting. There’s the thrill of learning a new system, of seeing things from a fresh perspective, of collecting moments that will one day feel like a different lifetime. But there’s also the weight of knowing that I’m always in translation, always navigating between inputs and outputs of who I am, who I need to be to blend in, and who I’m eager to become. And beneath it all, the awareness that the world around me is not as stable as I wish it were. The country I find myself in feels tense, and restless. Conversations shift easily to fear—of the future, of the past repeating itself, of things falling apart.

I listen. I observe. I exist in the space between familiarity and estrangement. If I don’t fully belong anywhere, perhaps that simply means I am meant to move fluidly through different places, carrying pieces of each with me. It’s not a comforting thought, nor an unsettling one—just a reality I’m learning to accept. Some questions don’t have answers, and maybe the search for belonging is one of them.

Rather than exhausting myself chasing clarity, I choose a different kind of release these days. I put on What’s Up? by 4 Non Blondes, let the chorus build, and with no reservations, I throw my voice into the air: What’s going on? There’s something cathartic about letting it all out, an unfiltered moment of surrender to the uncertainty of it all. An intimate rebellion against the world while in the comfort of my room.

At the same time, I allow myself to grieve the version of me that existed before this journey before I became so acutely aware of borders, both physical and invisible. But mourning is not the same as resisting change. Even in the midst of displacement, I choose to embrace what makes me human—empathy, connection, and the ability to adapt. I might always carry the feeling of being an outsider, but that does not make me any less a part of this world… whatever that means.

And for now, that understanding is enough.