Not From Here, Not From There: Redefining Belonging

Jenniffer Crowe - 05/18/2025

Río San Juan, Dominican Republic

I’ve lived in the United States for over a decade now—ten years that were amazingly marked by both professional and personal growth. I started a career, met a kind-hearted guy who’s now my husband, and created a peaceful, creative life for myself. But for some reason, I’ve never stopped feeling like a foreigner. When I returned to the Dominican Republic for two years, I found pieces of home wrapped in sunlight and familiar voices—and I honestly loved living there. But even that didn’t feel like quite enough. I think I exist somewhere in between, floating in a quiet space that doesn’t quite belong to either place. It feels like I carry a culture only I can translate.

Back in the Dominican Republic, life moves with rhythm. The music in the streets, the warmth in people’s greetings, the way community fills in the gaps that systems leave behind. That part of it still feels like mine. But beneath it, I saw something else: a kind of resignation stitched into everyday life. A sense that today is all there is. Accountability slips through the cracks, and change is a whispered dream. That used to feel normal. Now, it doesn’t sit right—not because the place changed, but because I did.

In the U.S., I found structure, possibility, and the chance to build something for myself. I worked hard. I evolved. I created a life with my own hands. But even here, something's missing. The culture often feels distant, isolated. Friendships take years to deepen—if they ever do. Conversations can feel like performances, polite but shallow, as if everyone’s guarding something. Even now, after all these years, I still feel like I’m waiting to be let in.

And language—my bridge and my barrier. English is second nature to me now, but it will never feel like home. And sometimes, even in Spanish, I stumble, forgetting the words that once came easily. It’s like drifting between two shores and never fully reaching either.

Still, I don’t regret the path I chose. Growth demands sacrifice. And part of that was letting go of some of the closeness I had with people who no longer see the world the way I do. I miss them, but I can’t unsee what I’ve learned.

Washington, D.C.

Now, I find myself valuing different things: the beauty in small moments, the strength it takes to be accountable, the power of curiosity. I want to be surrounded by people who take responsibility for their lives, who ask questions instead of settling into blame. People who work toward something they believe in, no matter how small.

My husband is one of those people. He sees life through the same lens. He’s my anchor in this middle space, my reminder that I’m not entirely alone. But I still long for more voices in this quiet place between cultures.

That’s why I created Nomadic Roots.

This blog is where I write the things I rarely say out loud—to give shape to an identity that isn’t fixed by borders or flags. Maybe I’m not the only one living in this space. Maybe this in-between isn’t a void, but a starting point. A seed.

If you’ve ever felt like you don’t fully belong anywhere, maybe you’re not lost. Maybe you’re growing something new. I’m learning to call this space home. And maybe, just maybe, we can build it together.

Quizás el hogar no es un lugar, sino una forma de mirar el mundo.

Peoria, Arizona