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My ethics assigment got graded today so I’m storing this here. My perfectionist side feels a bit iffy about it, but listen, it had to feel hopeful, okay?

It was clear to me that moving to another country will pose some unpredictable challenges. I’ve never really done it before on this scale, and it has been a struggle as well as an adventure to discover them throughout my stay. A question I’ve been circling around most of these first few months is the question of language, and how does it affect the way I feel in and occupy a city in which I can’t understand most of the text that surrounds me. And, vice versa, an environment where I am not understood as I usually would be in my former context.
Maybe it was this continual thought process that made my heart skip a beat when Natasha Herman stated in one of the lectures in ethics something along the lines of: „As a conservator, you have a voice, and this voice is your significant tool and asset, therefore it is important to know how to use it well.” She vocalised something which I knew to be true, because in the past twenty-five years of my life, I’ve been intentionally nurturing this “voice” in my mother tongue. It was a tool I felt very comfortable using, shaping my message however I wanted, making it more subtle or sharp, putting things simply or adding more nuance when I wanted my words to have more weight. But after coming here, this strange, complicated language I spent so much time learning suddenly felt abundant. I had to rely on my good, but until that moment very passive English in a country full of Dutch, which I did not speak at all. It felt mainly frustrating, especially when buying groceries, but more importantly, it made me feel very vulnerable. My weapon of choice was gone. When someone shouted at me on the street, my lack of understanding made me unable to defend myself, and I often felt dependent on my Dutch classmates to translate terms in class, especially when doing research for my object. I was back to square one. This tool of mine suddenly got very heavy, somehow unbalanced, I could barely hold it in my hand. Sometimes it would slip completely, leaving me mute, looking for words. It made me feel small, often a bit stupid, from time to time weak, ashamed, in this foreign city full of foreign people, who all seemed to have no problem tackling this barrier. I wondered – did I lose my voice? And who even am I without it? If I can’t express myself and what I know, is it actually real? I never doubted my abilities before, at least not in an extent that would impact my willingness to put them in good use. But with my voice suddenly shaky, I realised my whole sense of self got shaky as well.
I got stuck in a loop and I was the centre, constantly debating how imperfect my English is, whether I can say what I think well, how will I be perceived. My language trouble was a problem of my own vanity. It took me a while to recognise this paradox, in which I only grew more silent.
But it was the same class that gave a better understanding of what having a voice means. Using a voice correctly means using it to have a conversation, to understand another person better and define shared goals. Having a voice doesn’t have to be about perfection or effectiveness, it’s about making space for people to be heard, and being heard in response. So, when I want to say something, I go for it. Even if I know that at some point I will stumble, make a mistake, use a wrong word. I am not ashamed of my accent – it’s a sound emblem of our worlds beyond the common lingua franca. And I listen, I listen as much as I can, with intent and care. The voice will come eventually – maybe even without me realising it did.