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Illustration by Catherine Chan
“You speak such good English.”
It’s meant as a compliment. I know that. But sometimes it lands with the faint surprise of an unexpected talent being revealed.
I’ve been reading, writing, thinking, even dreaming in English for decades. Each year, I listen to more than 100 audiobooks in English – voices and stories that keep me company on long walks, train my ear to every inflection and make listening both a discipline and a pleasure. I’ve built a career out of words – sliding them into place like glass tiles in a mosaic, turning them until they catch the light just right.
And yet, drop me into a group of native speakers at a noisy reception and I can feel it – the almost imperceptible shift. Someone laughs at a sitcom joke and I smile a beat too late. I used to say golf strangely – “gau-er-f” – and it made my husband chuckle every time, a tiny reminder that even with something so universal, the sound of a word can set you apart for a moment.
I’ve long had the feeling that when people meet me, there’s an unspoken question lingering in their minds: “You’re not from here, are you?” No one says it outright. It’s in the double-take when I stress the wrong syllable. The head tilts when I pause to choose a word. And sometimes, the inevitable question – gentle, curious – “Do you speak another language?”
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I’m a seasoned communications leader with two decades of experience. I’ve sat in boardrooms with executives whose decisions ripple through industries. I’ve stood in employee townhalls, microphone in hand, sharing how successful our next campaign will be if they can take part in it. I’ve crafted messages that helped organizations reimagine themselves and built strategies that travelled well beyond the borders they were born in.
Still, there’s an underlying awareness that surfaces when I hesitate before using a slang term I’m not sure will land.
For years, I tried to iron those edges flat. I studied the rhythms of casual conversation like choreography, practised idioms until they sounded effortless, kept my sentences tidy so no one could see where my thoughts began in another language. My goal was simple: blend in.
But no matter how carefully I rehearsed, I couldn’t erase the echo of where I came from. And somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting to.
My accent is the reminder of my mother tongue, the sound of my earliest lullabies. It’s the cadence of dinner table debates and childhood storytelling. It’s the thread that ties me back to the people and places that shaped me to be who I am.
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I once saw a mural in Nashville: huge angel wings painted on a grey brick wall. Tourists lined up to pose, arms stretched wide. Most smiled for the camera, but one woman closed her eyes and leaned back slightly, as if she could feel the lift. I remember thinking: Those wings aren’t just for flying; they keep you steady when you want to rise.
That’s what language feels like for me. Even when I stumble over a word, it still carries me. It helps me connect with people, work across countries and put words down in a way that lands where they need to.
Over time, I’ve come to see my accent not as a flaw to fix, but as a map – every vowel carrying a stamp from a place I’ve lived, every consonant shaped by the cultures I’ve navigated. It makes me notice more, adapt faster and listen deeper. It’s not something I tuck away. It’s something I lead with.
So if you’ve ever felt “less than” because English – or any language – isn’t your first, know this: Your voice already holds its own power. You don’t have to sand down every corner to fit.
Those corners? They catch the light.
Maggie Wang Maric lives in Toronto.
