Being Dutch and having been taught English from a young age, I find it fascinating to live in Germany and learn German. The more I learn about the language, the more similarities I see with Dutch and English. Sometimes, people teasingly say that Dutch is just a mix of English and German, and I suppose there is some truth to that idea. Take the compound noun tuning fork, for example. The verb to tune translates to in Dutch and in German. The Dutch word for fork is the similar-sounding , whereas its German counterpart is . We thus end up with the words tuning fork, , and .

The similarities between Dutch, English, and German extend beyond words. Dutch and German have a similar system of verbs, with a past tense that is formed analogously. Although used in slightly different contexts, both the formal and informal forms of address carry over from German to Dutch. Dutch has at most a few remnants of the case system that is in use in German, however. As a consequence, Dutch prepositions behave like their English relatives. Interestingly, Dutch has the same three grammatical genders as German, but uses only one article for words that are grammatically female or male. Therefore, creating gender-neutral language isn’t as hotly debated in the Netherlands as in Germany, but it isn’t as simple as in English.

Obviously, more parallels can be drawn between these three languages. However, any reader will immediately notice one distinguishing feature: word length. In English, compound nouns are generally separated by spaces. The Dutch and Germans chain their nouns. I’ve never used this Dutch word in practice, but we owe one of the longest palindromes, (fever measuring system strip), to this feature. Still, I’d say that German speakers in particular love long words. Soon after moving to Germany, I was confronted with words like (liability insurance), (income tax return), (tax identification number), and acronyms for even longer words.

Shifting gears, I’d like to discuss a question I am struggling with, which hides behind the German word . This word could be translated as the right to be or the right to exist. Do I have the right to be, or do I live by the grace of others? My doubts regarding this fundamental question have several practical ramifications. When in a public space like a bus, train, or square, I don’t feel comfortable taking up physical space. Similarly, while moving about a room, I’ll invariably make noises and wonder whether I’m disturbing the others present.

In conversations with others, I’m often cautious and quick to interpret questions as demands to justify my choices. Usually, I’ll be brief as well. I answer questions with at most a few lines, usually concluding with a return question. Afterward, I’ll feel embarrassed about not speaking up. On the other hand, I’m bound to feel guilty about being too present when talking more than other people. Interactions in which I’m not asked a question and others keep talking are worse, though. Instead of intervening, I’ll assume the other person isn’t interested in me—and withdraw into myself. There, I’ll conclude there is no place for me in this situation or relationship. On some days, I’ll even doubt whether there is a place for me at all.

The idea that there is no place for me hurts like hell, and I haven’t found an antidote for it yet. I do see that my reactions have changed over time. Just a few years ago, the slightest suggestion that my presence disturbed others would have been almost unbearable for me. Now, I roughly know which situations trigger my self-doubt, and I recognize my thoughts in them. In a reasonably safe setting, I won’t immediately withdraw anymore, but express my—still raw—emotions. I’m slowly unpacking my pain, and my self-esteem is growing. But I’m not there yet. So, do I have the right to be? Is there a place for me on this planet? You tell me, because I don’t know yet.