I Said I Was From Here. I Meant It. I Also Didn’t.

I was standing at a car dealership when someone commented on my earrings—bold, unmistakable, beautiful. But before the compliment, came the question:

“Where are you from?”

I said I was from here—Manhattan Beach. It was an automatic reaction.

It wasn’t the whole truth, though, because I’m not really from here. I’m an immigrant. I’ve lived many lives between countries and cultures, between accents and expectations.

In my college classroom, I joke about my 'sexy' accent—“Can you guess where it’s from?”— as a way to ease into conversations with new students. But lately, I wonder if we’ve all become too used to shrinking the complexity of a person into a single line of origin.

The question “Where are you from?” can open a door—or close it.

I don’t think the man at the dealership meant any harm. He likely didn’t even pause before asking. But something in me did. Something paused. Maybe, flickered. And I’ve been sitting with that flicker ever since.

The Book I Didn’t Mean to Read

That week, I picked up Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I was not seeking out a novel on race or identity. My daughter was assigned her book for summer reading - and I wanted to be part of her world, to support her reading goals, to talk about the books that shape her thinking. I opened it out of curiosity. I kept reading because I saw myself in the pages.

There’s a line in the opening chapter where Ifemelu, the protagonist, breathes in the air of Princeton and realizes: it smells like nothing. Unlike Philadelphia, which smells of history, or Brooklyn, which smells of sun-warmed garbage, Princeton has no scent. It’s clean, controlled, composed. It was the kind of place where no one questioned who you were—if you looked the part, you belonged. A place where one can pretend.

The moment stayed with me because I recognized it instantly—it echoed a pattern I’ve long understood, one where I adjust without being asked, where parts of me recede to make others more comfortable, and where something as simple as belonging never feels entirely unearned.

The Invisible Labor of Belonging

I’ve never experienced overt racism. I’ve been surrounded, more often than not, by warmth, generosity, and a genuine sense of welcome. But for those of us who live between cultures, there’s a particular kind of dissonance that doesn’t always announce itself loudly—it moves beneath the surface, shaping how we speak, what we share, and which versions of ourselves we allow into the room. Belonging, in these moments, is about constantly assessing what parts of you are safe to show, and what parts might need softening to make others more comfortable.

For me, personally - it has become a slow, internal calculation: deciding how far back to go when someone asks where I am from, considering which details of my life will resonate and which ones might require more context, sensing when to soften my story just enough to make it more familiar. Over time, I have begun to offer the version of myself that others can more easily understand—one that asks less of them, even if it reflects less of me.

How can wellness be separated from all this? It can't.

Wellness is about the integration of the self—the permission to speak, dress, eat, and exist without performance. It’s about being allowed, and perhaps even more importantly, being invited, to arrive as your full self—without explanation.

People ask, “Where are you from?” for many reasons—curiosity, connection, or habit. I’ve heard it in many voices, and I’ve been fortunate to receive it most often from people who are kind and open. Still, even the gentlest version of the question can stir something deeper when it’s one you’ve carried across borders, identities, and shifting definitions of home.

It is because intention doesn’t always match impact. What feels ordinary to one person can reopen something long held in another. It can summon the moments when we’ve chosen which version of ourselves to present, how much to explain, and how much to protect. So many of us carry stories just beneath the surface, waiting not to be interpreted—but invited in.

There’s no perfect way to ask someone about their background. But when the question is offered with care, with space, and with a genuine willingness to receive the answer, it lands differently. It doesn’t feel like a test. It feels like a welcome. Sometimes it sounds like, “What’s your story?” or “What’s something about your background that’s meaningful to you?”

It becomes a door, not a spotlight.

The earrings I wore that day were beautiful, handmade, expressive. I’ve worn them often, but something about that afternoon made me feel their weight differently—like a thread running through the person I’ve been, the person I’m becoming, and the places that continue to live inside me.

And maybe next time someone asks,

“Where are you from?” I’ll say, “Here. And somewhere else too. Would you like to hear the story?”