The Language We Wear: How Context Changes Who We Are

I speak differently to my mother than to my wife, differently to my wife than to my son, differently to my son than to his teacher, differently to his teacher than to the tea stall owner. Each conversation requires me to become a slightly different version of myself—adjusting vocabulary, tone, cultural references, even the basic rhythm of my thoughts.

We are all method actors in the theater of social interaction, playing variations of ourselves for different audiences.

With my mother, I revert to a more formal Bengali, using respectful constructions that I learned in childhood but rarely access in daily life. My voice literally changes pitch, becomes more deferential. I’m performing the role of “son” in the linguistic style she expects, speaking from a version of myself that exists only in her presence.

Each relationship activates a different linguistic personality.

We unconsciously code-switch not just between languages but between versions of ourselves.

At my son’s school, talking to his teacher, I become articulate in the specific register of parental concern—measured, responsible, using educational terminology with careful precision. I’m performing competent fatherhood through vocabulary choices I never use at home.

At the tea stall, my Bengali becomes simpler, more direct, stripped of intellectual complexity. I’m not performing intelligence or sophistication; I’m performing neighborly humanity, accessibility, the kind of person who belongs in this everyday space.

Each linguistic performance is both authentic and artificial—truly me, but only partially me.

We’ve learned that survival requires fluency in multiple social languages.

My wife notices this when we’re out together, how my entire demeanor changes when I encounter different types of people. “You become someone else,” she observes, not critically but with fascination. She’s watching me navigate the complex social mathematics of impression management, adjusting my presentation based on what each situation seems to require.

But which version is the “real” me?

Perhaps they all are. Perhaps authenticity isn’t about maintaining a single consistent persona but about having the flexibility to access different aspects of yourself depending on context. Maybe linguistic code-switching is emotional intelligence in action—recognizing what each situation calls for and responding appropriately.

Or maybe we’ve become so skilled at performing ourselves that we’ve forgotten which performance is closest to truth.

The exhaustion of constant code-switching is real but rarely acknowledged.

By the end of a day that includes conversations with family, colleagues, shopkeepers, my son’s friends’ parents, I feel linguistically depleted. Each interaction required slightly different calibration, different energy, different versions of humor, concern, authority, friendliness.

We are constantly translating not just between languages but between social expectations.

I watch my son beginning to learn this dance. At home, he speaks with casual honesty about his feelings, his confusion, his excitement. At school, I see him becoming more careful, more measured, learning to modulate his natural expressiveness based on social context.

We teach children to fragment their authentic voice into socially appropriate pieces.

Digital communication has multiplied our linguistic personas exponentially.

Online, I have different voices for different platforms—professional on LinkedIn, casual on social media, intellectual in email exchanges with certain friends. Each digital space requires its own performance, its own version of who I am or wish to appear to be.

We’ve become curators of multiple linguistic identities, each one real but incomplete.

The teenager who speaks one way with parents, another with friends, another online isn’t being deceptive—they’re navigating the complex reality that different relationships call forth different aspects of self, and language is the tool we use to make these aspects visible.

Perhaps the goal isn’t to find our “true” linguistic voice but to become comfortable with our multiplicity.

The Bengali I speak with my mother carries emotional frequencies that my English can’t access. The casual language I use with my wife creates intimacy that formal speech would destroy. The simple words I choose with the tea stall owner build community across class and educational differences.

Each linguistic performance serves a purpose, builds a bridge, creates connection in its own way.

What if instead of seeing our code-switching as inauthentic, we recognized it as evidence of our capacity for empathy, adaptation, the beautiful human ability to meet others in the linguistic spaces where they can receive us most clearly?

We are all linguistic chameleons not because we’re deceptive, but because we’re social creatures evolved to create connection across difference—and sometimes that requires speaking in the key that helps others hear the music of who we are.