How Do You Say "Lost" in Every Language?
I speak four languages fluently. Spanish, Guarani, Portuguese, and English. In college, I took a semester of French and wandered through Paris, piecing together phrases from my lessons, testing the limits of my tongue. But fluency is a fickle thing—it’s not just about words, but about being understood. And if that’s the case, have I ever truly been fluent in anything?
I was born in Paraguay, a country where Guarani became an official language in 1992. By then, I was already 8 years old, but my journey with Guarani had started long before. Long before it was accepted. Long before it was allowed.
My mother forbade me from speaking it. She wanted my Spanish to be perfect, untarnished. Guarani, to her, was a limitation. To me, it was a door. One that led to friendship, to belonging, to a world just beyond my reach.
So, I learned it in secret. A tiny act of rebellion, a desperate grasp at connection. I don’t even remember how I found a Guarani dictionary, but I did. And I poured over it, memorizing the words like they were spells, hoping they would conjure a place for me among my peers.
But language does not guarantee belonging.
I learned Guarani because I wanted friends.
And I still had none.
I was the weird one—too much, too intense, too hyperactive, too… wrong. I wouldn’t understand why until decades later, when at 29, I was diagnosed with ADHD. And now, at 41, I am certain that I sit somewhere on the autism spectrum too. But back then, I had no labels. Just rejection.
So, I turned inward. If no one would speak to me, I would listen.
That’s how I learned Portuguese—not in conversation, not in friendship, but in isolation. My bedroom became my sanctuary, my television my companion. I grew up on the border of Brazil, where six different Brazilian channels played for free, their voices filling the silence where friendships should have been.
I absorbed Portuguese like a sponge, the way I had with Guarani. But this time, not out of rebellion, not out of hope, but out of loneliness.
Guarani was the language I learned because I longed for friendship.
Portuguese was the language I learned because I had none.
At 16, I left Paraguay. The United States swallowed me whole, and suddenly, English wasn’t a choice—it was a lifeline. I learned it the way one learns to swim after being thrown into the ocean: desperately, without grace, without a moment to think.
And yet, no matter how many languages I carried in my mouth, I still found myself misunderstood.
Fluency is not the same as connection.
I could translate words, conjugate verbs, construct perfect sentences. But the rhythm of human interaction, the invisible rules of friendship, the art of simply belonging—those things never came easily to me.
Instead, I became hyper-focused on romantic relationships, believing that love could fill the spaces friendship never did. But even there, I faltered. I was present, but never fully invested. I loved, but never stayed. No relationship lasted beyond two years. The pattern repeated itself in jobs, homes, entire cities. I was always moving. Searching.
And then, there’s the greatest irony of all—I speak multiple languages, yet I struggle to communicate.
Not because I lack the words. I have too many words. But I never learned the ones that matter most—the ones that make people stay, the ones that make them understand me, the ones that turn conversation into connection.
How do you say “lost” in every language?
Because that’s the word I know best.
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