Sometimes I wonder if I was born with a suitcase instead of a birth certificate.
I came into the world on July 23rd, which makes me a Leo—ruled by the Sun, the center of the universe. Naturally, I assumed the world would revolve around me. And in my head, it still does. But in reality, I ended up revolving around the world.
In my 19 years of life, I’ve lived more lives than years. Each one played out somewhere new—with different languages, different streets, different core memories, eras, accents, friendships, heartbreaks, rushed goodbyes, and suitcase-packing meltdowns. And, eventually… healing.
Every place left a fingerprint.
Every culture carved a little piece into me.
(Except the U.S., because—let’s be honest—what culture????)
Now, standing at the intersection of East and West, I’m not sure if I’m a cultural masterpiece or just a slightly broken souvenir.
When I was little, it was hard to accept that I wouldn’t have a “normal” or settled childhood. Every place I moved to, I called home—even if only for a season. That felt comforting… until it got confusing.
I remember going to Ukraine to see family and being told that our passports had expired. I threw myself on the floor of the airport, screaming:
“LET ME INTO MY MOTHERLAND!”
Because in my seven-year-old brain, that was supposed to be my next home.
Little did I know—I had many more continents waiting for me.
I remember switching schools constantly. Being bullied for my accent in the U.S. Then getting made fun of in the U.K. for sounding American.
No one believed I was from Kazakhstan—because apparently, I didn’t “look Asian enough.”
That’s when my global identity crisis booked its one-way ticket.
So… am I adapted? Or adopted?
I used to carry my adaptability like a trophy. You could drop me in a Siberian forest, a village, a Vogue office, or a Georgian grandma’s kitchen—and I’d thrive. I could mimic any accent in two weeks. I could switch between four languages like tabs in a browser. One moment I was devouring 20 khinkali chased with chacha like a real Georgian man, and the next I was sipping oat milk lattes in Shoreditch, painfully polite in my best British voice.
People always said I was “so worldly.”
And sure, it was fun.
Until it wasn’t.
Because when you’re from everywhere, you’re also from nowhere.
I never had a childhood bedroom that stayed the same.
I don’t have a box of old friends who all share the same inside jokes.
Each version of me lived somewhere else, spoke a different slang, had a different SIM card, wore different shoes.
I became a human passport stamp. A cultural shapeshifter.
I can walk into a room full of strangers and make everyone feel like I’ve known them for years—but don’t ask me where I’m from. Or where I go when I need to cry. I still don’t know the answer.
The truth is, being from everywhere is like being in a long-distance relationship with yourself.
You miss parts of you you left behind in other time zones.
You find yourself missing the Tube—not because it’s glamorous, but because once, on the Central Line, you landed your dream job and cried into the hot garbage air like it was perfume.
You even start longing for cities that didn’t treat you well, simply because they felt familiar.
So I’ve learned to love the fragments.
To find belonging in bits and pieces.
To create home—even where I can’t find it.
Sometimes I envy people who hate their hometowns.
At least they have one.
A place they can point to on a map and dramatically say, “This is why I’m like this.”
Me?
I point at the globe and say, “Spin it—and wherever your finger lands, I probably cried there once.”
Maybe I wasn’t adopted or adapted.
Maybe I was assembled.
Woven together by time zones, carry-ons, trauma bonding, and emotionally significant metro stations.
A global girl with an emotional support dog and an identity that fits in no box—but somehow belongs in every country.
Maybe home isn’t a place.
Maybe it’s someone pronouncing your name correctly.
A perfume you wore in your teens.
A playlist that smells like summer in a city you’ll never return to.
Maybe it’s not about where you are—it’s about who you’ve been becoming.
I may never have a zip code I belong to.
But I have stories.
I have accents.
I have love letters from cities I once called mine.
And for now, that’s enough.
With love, from somewhere in between,
Sonya Kossaya
