People usually talk about missing family first. Or food. Or the weather — especially the sun, in my case. No one really understands why moving from Costa Rica, with its almost perfect weather, to the UK, pretty much its opposite, feels like such a shock.

But recently, language has been the thing quietly resurfacing.

I speak English at home with my husband. English at work with my colleagues. English with my friends in the UK. Spanish only appears now when I call my parents, or an old friend. Reduced to a narrow corridor in an otherwise English-speaking life.

And I keep wondering — maybe too dramatically — what happens when a language disappears from daily life?

Little moments have made the craving visible.

Once, I sat in a different spot at the office and overheard a woman taking a call at her desk (something I’m usually against). But then she started speaking Spanish. Maybe Colombian. I wasn’t trying to listen, but the sound itself felt incredibly satisfying. Not the content — just the familiarity of it. Like hearing something that knows you.

Music has been another sign. Most of my life I gravitated toward English-speaking artists — rock, and all its variations. But lately, I’ve been reaching for Spanish-speaking music again. It started casually: salsa and merengue while cooking dinner. Then more intentionally. Natalia Lafourcade. Rosalía. Silvana Estrada. Even Bad Bunny’s latest album suddenly showing up on my Spotify’s most played recently. It feels less like nostalgia and more like something I didn’t realise I was missing.

I keep realising that language isn’t just a tool. It’s part of who we are.

I remember being at a Mexican restaurant with my husband and my parents-in-law. I ordered in Spanish, joked a little with the waiter. Later, my mother-in-law said: “스페인어가 잘 어울리네요.” In Korean, that means something like Spanish suits you well.

The comment stayed with me longer than I expected. I started thinking about the people who only know my English-speaking self, and about what parts of me they might never meet. What tone, what rhythm, what version of me only exists in another language.

There’s also a kind of intimacy that comes with speaking your language and being understood — una complicidad — that connects you differently.

Normally, instead of searching only for people who can understand me, I try to let small pieces of myself be visible. A Spanish word here and there at work. A song shared. Explaining a tradition. Noticing similarities with other cultures.

Even at home, we move through a mix of Korean, English, and Spanish so naturally that we don’t always notice — until someone from the outside points it out.

I don’t know where a language goes when it’s no longer spoken every day. I just know that sometimes, when I hear it unexpectedly, my body recognises it before my mind does. Sometimes it’s a song, sometimes a passerby speaking Spanish on the street. It shows up when you least expect it.