The Sanctuary is a weekly pause for people in transition — between who they’ve been and who they’re becoming. Each issue is written for reflection, not advice. Read the latest entry below, or browse the archive.
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Growing up, people often asked how I managed to move countries on my own. The simple answer is that I’ve never felt tethered to a single place.
I was born in India but carried to Dubai before I could form memories. English was the language my parents spoke at home. When a counsellor in Canada later asked for my “mother tongue,” I honestly said it was English. Hindi lived elsewhere.
On childhood trips back to India I pointed at things when visiting relatives because I couldn’t communicate. Those early experiences, being physically present yet linguistically apart—etched in me the sense that home is more than language or bloodlines.
As a teenager I returned to India after my father died. My accent and clothes were a source of ridicule. That was one of the first times I understood that location and belonging are not the same thing. Even now I don’t “look Indian” to many, and there’s a part of me that has always held the label at arm’s length.
There is a name for lives like this now: 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗱𝘀. Children raised between cultures often describe home as 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. That recognition helped, but the deeper truth was simpler: I had already learned to build belonging internally before I knew there was language for it.
Back in Dubai as an adult, life was both comforting and precarious. The desert had always been home, yet visas and jobs were intertwined; security was conditional. A relationship that drew me in and broke me open made it clear I needed to leave, not just a person but an entire life. On impulse I completed immigration papers for Canada. When they came through, I sold my belongings, bought a ticket and boarded a plane to a country I’d never seen.
I landed in Vancouver alone. At the airport I rode an escalator down to the arrivals hall and realized there was no one waiting for me. That first night, wrapped in a thin blanket in a hostel with a broken heater, I wanted to call my mother and undo everything.
The next morning I chose instead to take one step at a time: find a place to live, then find work. I asked people where to look for an apartment and they kept saying “depends on where you work.” How could I decide when I didn’t have a job?
I took buses and trains in the wrong direction, learned to use maps, and eventually viewed an apartment owned by a young couple from Hong Kong. It was their first rental. They asked for references; I had none. As I left, I saw a man sleeping on the platform outside the station and thought, At least I have a roof tonight. The next morning the couple messaged me: they liked my energy and offered me the place.
When I met with an employment counsellor she asked how long I thought it would take to find a job. “Two months,” I replied. She looked at me like I was naïve. Two months later, I was hired. It wasn’t the same level I’d left in Dubai, but it paid my bills and gave me a foothold. For eight years I built a life on the West Coast.