I’m Nepali But Can’t Speak Fluent Nepali: Why I’m No Longer Ashamed

Growing up in Nepal, you’d think fluency in your own language would come naturally. But for me—and many like me—it didn’t. I went to an international school where everything from classroom lectures to hallway gossip happened in English. And while I was still surrounded by Nepali food, festivals, and people, I felt myself slowly drifting away from something more essential: the language that rooted it all.

For the longest time, I saw that distance as a kind of coolness. The more fluent I was in English, the more confident, worldly, and competent I seemed—at least that’s what I thought. I didn’t feel pride when I spoke in Nepali. I felt awkward. Clunky. Like I was exposing something I was supposed to have mastered but hadn’t. And so, I avoided it.

The Shame

It’s not easy to admit, but I distanced myself from my own language—on purpose. I didn’t want to be seen as “too local,” “too traditional,” or “too much.” At the time, speaking in Nepali felt like a betrayal of the version of myself I was trying to become. So, I leaned into Western culture: the way I dressed, the slang I used, the way I corrected people’s grammar but couldn’t read Nepali myself.

But that performance comes at a price.

There’s a particular kind of shame in not being able to speak your own language fluently while being surrounded by it. You sit at family gatherings smiling, nodding, laughing at jokes you don’t fully understand. You avoid ordering food or asking for help in Nepali, afraid of messing up. You feel like you’re being watched, like your “Nepali card” is about to be revoked any second.

And the worst part? You start to internalize that you’re somehow less than.

The Reality

The truth is, this disconnect didn’t happen overnight—and it wasn’t just vanity. It was survival. When you grow up in a system that constantly rewards English fluency, global thinking, and cultural “refinement,” it's easy to think that blending in is the goal.

I wasn’t ashamed of being Nepali—I just didn’t know how to balance it with the version of myself the world seemed to praise.

And yet, no matter how far I leaned into assimilation, a quiet discomfort always followed me. The kind that creeps in when someone texts you in Nepali and you have to copy-paste it into Google Translate. When you can't recite a bhajan but know every Taylor Swift lyric by heart. When someone asks you to read out loud in Devanagari and you freeze.

The Acceptance

It took time to realize that fluency isn’t a requirement for belonging. You don’t have to speak perfect Nepali to be Nepali. Language is part of identity, yes—but it’s not the whole picture.

I began reconnecting with my culture through the things that felt natural to me: the food I craved when I was sad, the way I decorated my space during Tihar, the songs I hummed when I missed home. Slowly, I stopped trying to erase the parts of me that felt “too Nepali.” I began wearing them with pride—even if I still stumbled over my grammar.

I’m still not fluent. I still ask my friends what certain words mean. But I no longer feel ashamed. In fact, I’m proud that I’m trying.

Final Thought: Let Language Be a Bridge, Not a Barrier

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that language can either be a gate or a doorway—and we get to choose. There’s no shame in learning. There’s no shame in starting late. What matters is the intention to come back to yourself, even if the path is broken and winding.

So if you’re like me—Nepali but not fluent—don’t let that define your worth. You’re still valid. You still belong. Fluency may be earned, but identity is never something you have to prove.

Be kind to yourself. And be even kinder to others who are still finding their way home.