When I was an impressionable little eight-year-old, I moved to Belgium and immediately fell in love with a man who spoke 17 languages.

I don’t remember what he looked like. He was a concierge. He could have been a cave troll. I remember being so impressed with the languages.

Seventeen.

I was enthralled. I wanted to speak in all the tongues. I imagined myself effortlessly switching between French, German, Italian, Pig Latin, and whatever else multilingual people spoke.

Four decades and change later, I still speak exactly one language.

English.

How is this possible?

I grew up in a French-speaking country. I took multiple years of French classes. I have repeatedly decided that I am going to learn French. I have spent time in France. I have friends who speak French.

And yet, if someone speaks French to me, my brain immediately begins searching through a cluttered filing cabinet of vocabulary while my mouth clamps shut.

As part of my 2023 dream-chasing project*, I signed up for two French classes. I took one with a friend through a local college and another by myself through Alliance Française. Going to class alone was considerably less comfortable than going with a friend, but it forced my introverted self to talk to strangers and get outside my comfort zone.

In our continuing education class, my friend and I had a great time. We enthusiastically jammed vin rouge and jouer au tennis into as many sentences as possible, which was not necessarily useful but was extremely entertaining.

In 2025, as part of my 50 New Things project**, I tried a tutor through italki for ten lessons. This was, by far, the best option. One-on-one conversations meant I couldn’t hide behind other students, nodding thoughtfully while letting someone else answer first.

I actually had to speak.

Which brings us to 2026.

Je ne parle toujours pas français.

After four decades of classes, childhood exposure, travel, a tutor, and a billion opportunities to become the multilingual woman I once imagined I would be, I remain stubbornly monolingual.

At this point, my hobby is taking French classes more than actually learning French.

I’ve had a lot of versions of myself come and go over the years. I don’t hold onto or mourn most of them. Still, the one where I speak French refuses to go away.

I don’t actually know why.

Maybe it’s because that eight-year-old girl is still in there somewhere, still fascinated by the idea that one person could have seventeen different ways to ask for directions to the library.

I’m just hoping she doesn’t expect me to learn Italian too.

*This project eventually turned out to be what other people just call living and doing things for fun.

**I don’t know why I need to approach my life like a milestone-heavy deliverable.