To Move Between Worlds
What if we're meant to stay flexible, to find our own rhythm and live lightly... to fly?
[This essay is a beautiful adaptation of my personal story, written by my beautiful friend, Benga. Do check out her Substack. It’s refreshing and uplifting. Thank you, Benga!]
I grew up in northern Argentina, in a bilingual home where words were everything. My dad taught English at the university and read dictionaries for fun. My mom (born and raised in Syracuse, NY), married Dad, moved to Argentina and learned Spanish through full immersion, the hard and beautiful way.
The first word I ever said, after “Mama”, was birdito. A mix of pajarito and little bird. Just a toddler’s jumble of languages. But cute and funny.
Lately, I’ve been wondering; maybe it wasn’t just a funny word. Maybe it was a tiny clue. A whisper from the beginning that I was meant to live lightly. To move between worlds. To find my own rhythm.
For years, though, I didn’t feel like a bird. I felt trapped in a body that hurt. My joints were swollen, my wrists barely moved. Piano, the one thing that gave me joy, became something I couldn’t touch. Diagnosis followed diagnosis. And the words I began using about myself (my arthritis, my pain, my limitation) started to build a very different kind of story.
A heavier one.
Eventually, it was my kids’ health that cracked everything open. That was the moment I knew I couldn’t keep doing things the way I’d been taught. I had to learn a new language; one that included light, rest, water, movement, nourishment. One that included trust.
That’s when the healing began.
And now, years later, I keep thinking of that little word: birdito.
Maybe it wasn’t random. Maybe it was the first sign that deep down, I already knew:
We’re not meant to stay grounded in stories that keep us small.
Even if the flight takes a while. Even if you forget how. The wings are still there.
“Your wings already exist.
All that remains is the remembering.”
Unknown
“There is a voice that doesn’t use words.
Listen.”
Rumi