When you change countries three times in a year, the boundaries in your head start to blur. You get used to the idea that "home" is wherever your laptop and stable Wi-Fi are. Lisbon, Bali, Tbilisi, Berlin... I learned to order coffee in five languages ​​and find common ground with anyone, from taxi drivers in Kuta to artists in Kreuzberg. I truly believed that we lived in a world where what matters is who you are as a person, not how you look.

And then I arrived in Spain. Valencia greeted me with the scent of oranges and incredible light. I felt absolutely happy, soaking up the southern rhythm of "mañana." Until one evening, in a cozy bar on the outskirts of the city, I heard a distinctive laugh behind me.

A group of guys at the next table didn't hide their amusement. They began mimicking "Chinese" sounds, stretching their eyes with their fingers to their temples, and exchanging glances, pointing at me. You know, that weird feeling? It doesn't hurt physically, but something inside freezes. At that moment, you cease to be an interesting person, a traveler, or an expert. You become a "picture," the butt of a dull joke.
The most offensive thing in such moments is the reaction of those around you. Some shyly avert their eyes, others shrug, as if to say, "Well, they're just joking, don't take it to heart." But such "jokes" are always about power. An attempt to show you that you don't belong here.

Living in different countries has taught me a lot, but that incident in Spain taught me the most important lesson. For a long time, I tried to "fit in": dress like a European, speak without an accent, be as "one of them" as possible. But that laughter in the bar reminded me: I will never be one of them 100%. And that's... normal.

My Asian appearance is not a flaw to be compensated for by perfect behavior. This is the legacy of my ancestors, this is my unique aesthetic, this is part of my DNA. And if someone's education or upbringing is insufficient to see beyond the cut of a person's eyes, it's a problem of their narrow perspective, not my appearance.

I didn't hate Spain. It's still just as beautiful. But I stopped seeking approval from random passersby. The life of a nomad gives you an amazing superpower: you understand that the world is vast, and there will always be people who will judge you by your cover. But there will also be thousands who want to know the contents of your book.
Now, when I open my passport at the border of another country, I look into the camera confidently. My eyes have seen the Caucasus Mountains, the jungles of Asia, and the ocean in Portugal. They have absorbed so much beauty that there simply is no room left for other people's stupidity.

I am a daughter of the steppes, living to the rhythm of the metropolis. I am a person of the world. And if anyone wants to laugh at how I look, let them laugh. I'll just keep going, leaving them far behind in their small, limited world.