“There’s a crack in everything. That’s where the light comes in.”
Leonard Cohen’s lyrics floated into my mind one rainy Paris afternoon, the kind of day where the clouds mirrored my mood. If you’re an expat—or you’ve ever felt like a square peg in a world full of round holes—you might understand.
The cracks I felt weren’t physical, of course. They were the invisible ones: the awkward pauses, the language blunders, the ever-present voice in my head whispering, You don’t belong here.
I didn’t realize it then, but those cracks weren’t signs of failure. They were invitations to let light in. And today, I want to tell you how I learned to embrace them.
Keep reading—this one's personal.
When I first moved to Paris, I arrived with high hopes and even higher expectations. I had already done the expat thing in London, so how hard could this next step be?
Spoiler: very hard.
I’d studied French for years, passed exams, even practiced with a few enthusiastic pen pals back in the day. But none of that prepared me for the real deal—standing in a bustling Parisian boulangerie, panicking over how to order a baguette without sounding like a total fool.
The real kicker wasn’t the mistakes themselves. It was the shame. Every mispronounced word felt like a personal failure, a neon sign flashing Out of Place! above my head. And it wasn’t just the language. It was everything.
I watched the effortless confidence of Parisian women and felt like an imposter. My wardrobe screamed tourist. My attempts to chat with other moms at the park fell flat. And don’t even get me started on navigating the endless vous versus tu dilemma.
So, I did what seemed logical at the time: I shrank. I avoided conversations unless absolutely necessary. I rehearsed every sentence in my head before daring to speak. And slowly, quietly, I started to fade into the background.
Then I tried the “overcompensation strategy.” I pushed myself to be perfect—to speak flawlessly, understand every idiom, master every cultural nuance. I told myself, “If I can just nail this, they’ll accept me.” But perfectionism? It’s a trap. And it’s lonely at the top of that impossible mountain.
The real problem isn’t the mistakes, the accents, or the cultural blunders. The real problem is the shame we attach to them.
Here’s the thing about perfection: it’s seductive. It whispers promises of belonging, success, and ease. If you just get it right, you’ll be accepted. If you never make a mistake, they’ll see you as one of them.
But perfection doesn’t deliver.
Instead, it traps you in a cycle of self-criticism and isolation. The more I tried to be flawless, the more disconnected I became—from others and from myself.
Perfection was stealing my joy. But at the time, I didn’t know another way.
Then came the tennis game.
I’d signed up for a local women’s tennis club in a desperate bid to meet people. Truth be told, I didn’t feel remotely ready to face a group of strangers, but loneliness can push you into uncomfortable places.
One afternoon, during a doubles match, I tried to call a ball out. Only, I completely butchered the French word for it. I froze, cheeks flaming, bracing myself for the usual wave of judgment.
But instead? The women laughed. Not cruelly, not mockingly—just warmly. Like I’d shared a joke they were delighted to be part of. One of them gently corrected me, and we kept playing as if nothing had happened.
That moment cracked something open inside me.
I realized that I didn’t need to be perfect to belong. I just needed to show up.
After that day, I started showing up differently. I stopped treating mistakes like catastrophes and started treating them like tiny adventures. Every misstep was an opportunity to learn, to connect, to laugh.
I began speaking up more often, even when my sentences were clumsy. I practiced forgiving myself for not knowing every idiom or cultural nuance. And slowly but surely, the shame began to loosen its grip.
But the most surprising part? My relationships changed.
The more I allowed myself to be seen—cracks and all—the more others opened up to me. Conversations felt warmer, deeper. I started to find my people: the moms at the park who didn’t care if my French wasn’t perfect, the local shopkeeper who always greeted me with a smile, the fellow expats who were navigating their own cracks.
If you’ve ever felt like I did—trapped by perfection, weighed down by shame—let me tell you: there’s another way. Here’s what I’ve learned about letting the light in:
Reframe Mistakes: Instead of seeing them as failures, start seeing them as connection points. Every misstep is a chance to laugh, learn, and grow closer to the people around you.
Stop Hiding: Vulnerability isn’t a weakness—it’s a bridge. The more you let yourself be seen, the more you’ll find people who truly see you.
Celebrate the Effort: Success isn’t about getting it right the first time; it’s about showing up, trying, and trying again.
Find Your Community: You don’t have to do this alone. Whether it’s fellow expats, local friends, or a supportive coach, having a community makes all the difference.
When I look back on those early days in Paris, I barely recognize the version of me who was so determined to hide her cracks.
Now, I see those cracks as part of what makes me whole. They’re where the connections grew, where the laughter happened, where the light poured in.
I'll leave you with this: What if the cracks you’ve been hiding are actually the places where your light is meant to shine?
And that’s a wrap for today, my lovely expats! If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your stories. Email them to me or leave me a voice message on Instagram.
Until next time, remember: You belong right where you are, because the world needs exactly who you are.
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