The smell of cardamom coffee mingled with the sound of gossip as the sun dipped below the Beirut skyline. My grandmother’s voice cut through the noise of the crowded kitchen, reminding me to bring more za’atar from the cupboard. Life here had a rhythm, a sense of belonging tied to the scent of spices and the sound of voices overlapping in warmth. Lebanon, with all its imperfections, was home. But in 2019, everything changed. I moved to Texas, and almost as soon as I arrived, the pandemic hit. Right before I left, Lebanon was in the middle of a revolution – people were protesting the corrupt government. There was hope, even in the chaos.
But in the U.S., it felt like I had lost everything.
The first weeks in Texas were a blur of disconnection. The streets were quiet, not with the familiar noise of life but with the eerie silence of lockdown. The pandemic created a new kind of isolation, and it wasn’t just physical. I felt as if I had left behind not just my family and friends, but a piece of myself. In Lebanon, everything had meaning – the food, the music, the conversations that flowed effortlessly. Here, everything felt sterile, mechanical. My attempts to connect with people were hindered by a culture that seemed closed off, even before masks covered faces.
In Lebanon, I had been surrounded by warmth. Here, in America, it felt like the world had grown cold.
The shock of the move, compounded by the global pandemic, left me feeling untethered. I had hoped that Texas would be a fresh start, a place where I could finally find stability. Instead, I found myself more lost than ever. There were no bustling souks, no family dinners filled with laughter, no late-night talks with my best friends. Instead, there was social distancing, closed campuses, and a gnawing sense of loneliness.
When I started college, the pandemic was winding down, and for the first time, there was room to breathe. College became a lifeline. It was the first place where I found a sense of community again. Here, I met others who had stories like mine, who understood the feeling of straddling two worlds. I also met people who didn’t understand but were willing to learn.
But the culture shock didn’t just fade away. I still missed the rhythm of life back home. In Texas, the social norms were different, the sense of family not as tight-knit. I longed for the familiar chaos of Lebanon, where even the smallest gathering turned into a celebration. Yet, over time, I realized I didn’t have to choose one life over the other.
To help balance the transition, I adopted a few habits that other expats might find useful when adjusting to a new place. One tip is to create a personal space that feels like home – whether it’s decorating with meaningful items, hanging up familiar artwork, or setting up a corner that reminds you of your roots. I have four vintage posters of old Lebanese movies hung up in my bathroom that remind me of the golden age of Lebanese cinema, and every time I see them, they bring a bit of nostalgia and a connection to the cultural history of my homeland. I also made it a point to seek out local spots that reminded me of back home, like markets where I could find ingredients from Lebanon. Cooking traditional dishes or keeping up with rituals like family dinners helped me stay connected to my culture while embracing the new. And perhaps most importantly, I made time for video calls with loved ones, keeping those relationships strong, despite the distance. These small things kept me grounded and helped bridge the gap between my old and new worlds.
Another thing that helped me adapt was creating small routines that combined the familiar with the new. I found comfort in blending the two cultures – like keeping a part of my morning dedicated to something from home. Whether it’s brewing coffee the way you’re used to or setting aside time for a tradition that grounds you, these small practices can make a new place feel less foreign. Embracing the change while holding onto pieces of your past is a balancing act.
So now, I brew my coffee with a little cardamom, just like my grandmother taught me. I mix za’atar with olive oil and spread it on bread, a taste of home in this new place.
As I navigate my life in the U.S., I’ve come to embrace both sides of my identity. I am no longer just the girl who left Lebanon, nor am I fully American. I’m something in between – a bridge between two cultures, finding beauty in both.