When Words Arrive in English. When They Refuse To.

Some words arrive in English.
Quietly, politely — as if asking for permission to sit beside me.

Others insist on coming in Portuguese, all rhythm and warmth, with no regard for the silence I was keeping.

For a long time, I thought I had chosen the language I would write in.
Now I know the language chooses me.

English became my daily companion about twelve years ago. It slipped into my mornings through emails, meetings, and coffee with my husband. It became my love language — the way I say I’m here, the way I tell stories about love that don’t need translation.

It’s the language I use to work, to think, to explain, to dream in public.
It’s also the one that widened my world — that taught me new rhythms, new patience, new precision.

English feels like the partner who listens before speaking.
Measured. Curious. Constant.
It steadies me.

But Portuguese — ah, Portuguese is the song I was born inside.
It’s playful, chaotic, melodic.
It’s my ego, my id, my pulse.
It’s the language of my childhood streets, my grandmother’s laughter, my first notebooks.

I used to teach it, edit it, polish it, love it professionally and personally.
It is my refuge.
My place of completion.

When I write children’s books, they come in Portuguese almost by instinct.
Maybe because they reach my inner child — the girl who loved rhymes, who played with sounds, who learned to make meaning out of joy.
Writing in Portuguese feels like visiting her again.

But between both languages, there is a border that never closes.
Sometimes, I live right on that line — speaking with one, thinking with another, mixing both until I confuse everyone except myself.

There are moments when one protects me, and the other exposes me.
Portuguese keeps me safe.
English makes me brave.

Sometimes, they argue.
And sometimes, they dance.

There are words that simply refuse to travel.
Saudade. Cafuné. Cheiroso.
They can’t cross borders without losing their scent, their heartbeat, their memory.

But English, too, has its keepers.
Playful. Brainstorm. Words that feel like movement, impossible to cage in Portuguese.

Maybe that’s why I keep both — so one can remind the other what it feels like to live with no translation.

I no longer worry about choosing the right one.
Each carries a part of me that the other cannot hold.

Maybe I don’t write in two languages.
Maybe I’m written by them.

One teaches me how to love.
The other reminds me of where I come from.
And between both, I find myself —
still listening for the next word that decides to arrive.

Do you also live between languages — or between parts of yourself that speak in different voices?