Lost in Translation: How Language Affects Our Perception of Personal Growth
Do you feel like you're the same person you were 20 years ago; or have you changed so much you feel like a different person? Does the language you speak determine your answer to that question?
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There’s a quiet magic to language. It can evoke emotions, paint vivid scenes, and construct entire worlds within our minds. It’s not just the words we speak, but the hidden structures beneath them that shape how we think, feel, and even perceive ourselves. What if the way we mark time in our language subtly rewires how we experience it? Could the past feel closer—or more distant—based on the very words we use to describe it?
These are the questions that came to my mind when I read Joshua Rothman's article Becoming You, in which he wrote:
"Are we the same people at four that we will be at twenty-four, forty-four, or seventy-four? Or will we change substantially through time? Is the fix already in, or will our stories have surprising twists and turns? Some people feel that they’ve altered profoundly through the years, and to them the past seems like a foreign country, characterized by peculiar customs, values, and tastes. But others have a strong sense of connection with their younger selves, and for them the past remains a home."
This tension—between the push of stability and the pull of change—led me to wonder if our language, with its grammatical scaffolding, influences whether we feel like the same person over the years or a series of different versions of ourselves.
The Subtle Influence of Language on Time and Self
Linguists have long known that language does more than communicate thoughts; it shapes how we think. Roman Jakobson once observed that “languages differ essentially in what they must convey and not in what they may convey.” This distinction—between what is optional and what is obligatory—points to how language forces us to categorize the world in specific ways. In English, for instance, I can say that I had lunch with a friend without revealing their gender. But in Spanish I would be forced to share this: amigo or amiga. I can express this in English if I choose, but I am not obligated to consider and express this the way I would be in Spanish.
On the other hand, English does require me to express when in time I had lunch. I can say that “I ate,” "I am eating," or “I will eat." I must choose a past, present or future tense. There is no way to discuss eating lunch with a friend that doesn't anchor the event in time.
This mandatory marking of tense in English creates clear boundaries between past, present, and future. We say, "I was a child" or "I will be an adult," establishing distinct temporal categories that often feel linear, with each stage of life a separate chapter that comes into view and then fades into the rearview mirror of time. Similarly, when we recall a memory, we are immediately bound by the tense system—we must frame the event as something that “happened.” This linguistic obligation forces us to view the past as distinct from the present.
But what if your language didn’t force you to mark time so rigidly? In languages like Mandarin, the past can remain ambiguous. You can describe events without specifying when they happened. This difference may seem trivial, but it raises a profound question: Could the structure of language—particularly how it compels us to talk about time—influence how speakers view their lives: as either divided into distinct stages or as a continuous flow?
How Language Forces Us to Focus on Time
The idea that language shapes thought is far from new, with scholars long debating the implications of linguistic relativity—the notion that the structure of a language influences its speakers' worldview. Nowhere is this more evident than in how different languages handle time. In the 1950s, philosopher Martin Heidegger argued in Being and Time that “Time is not a thing but a condition; it is a lens through which we experience being.” Language is one of the clearest lenses through which we perceive time, shaping not just how we communicate but how we fundamentally experience and understand our existence.
Lera Boroditsky, a cognitive scientist who studies the relationship between language and thought, has offered fascinating insights into how linguistic structures shape temporal perception. She performed a series of experiments in Pormpuraaw, an Indigenous community in Australia, whose language Kuuk Thaayorre uses cardinal directions (north, south, east, west) instead of terms like “left” and “right.” She found that speakers of their language perceive time in a strikingly different way. When asked to arrange a sequence of cards showing a man aging, a crocodile growing, or someone eating a banana, the Kuuk Thaayorre speakers did not organize the images from left to right, as English speakers do. Instead, they arranged the sequence from east to west—the path of the sun through the sky.
What’s remarkable is that the Kuuk Thaayorre speakers arranged the cards this way regardless of which direction they themselves were facing during the experiment. Their sense of time was tied to the geography of the world around them, not to the orientation of their bodies in space. As Boroditsky observed, “We never told anyone which direction they were facing. The Kuuk Thaayorre knew that already and spontaneously used this spatial orientation to construct their representations of time.”
This alignment of time with cardinal directions suggests that the language we speak not only shapes how we think about the world but also how we experience our position in it. For the Kuuk Thaayorre, the passage of time is inextricably linked with the passage of the sun, a continuous flow that moves through space. By contrast, the linear left-to-right progression of time as perceived by English speakers—mirroring the way we read—implies a more rigid, segmented sense of time’s forward march.
These linguistic differences offer insight into how different cultures—and by extension, different languages—might frame the concept of time, which inevitably seeps into how we perceive our personal development over time.
The Psychology of Language and Memory
One of the most fascinating intersections of language and identity is memory. Elizabeth Loftus, a cognitive psychologist, found that the way we frame questions can alter how people remember events. In a famous study, participants watched a video of a car accident and were asked how fast the cars were going when they "smashed" into each other. Other participants were asked how fast the cars were going when they "hit" each other. Those who heard the word "smashed" were more likely to report higher speeds and even remembered seeing broken glass, which wasn't actually present.
Loftus’ study reveals that language doesn’t just shape how we think about the world—it can also change the way we remember it. If a single word can reshape our memories, imagine how the ongoing use of different linguistic structures could affect the way we perceive ourselves and our pasts. The details we choose to emphasize—or are required to emphasize by the structure of our language—can change the way we recall the past, and thus, how connected we feel to our former selves.
Consider also how different languages handle the act of remembering. In English, we often frame memory as a retrieval of facts from a specific point in time: "I remember when I was five years old." It’s as though our past selves are trapped in amber, frozen at a particular moment. This linguistic framing reinforces the idea that our past is separate, isolated from the present, and perhaps even distant from who we are now. The words we use suggest that the person who experienced those moments is not entirely the same as the one reflecting on them.
But in some languages the act of remembering is more fluid, an ongoing process of awareness rather than a journey back to a distinct point in time. In Indonesian, for example, memory is less about retrieving a specific moment and more about an ongoing awareness. The past isn’t a distant country; it’s a companion, woven into the fabric of now. This perspective may have profound implications for how we experience identity across time. If the past is not frozen, but instead interwoven with the present, then perhaps we are not so different from who we once were.
This linguistic difference raises an intriguing possibility: Could languages that frame memory as a continuous process foster a stronger sense of connection between our past and present selves? If we are not constantly required to situate our memories in a specific time frame, might we experience a greater sense of continuity in our personal narratives?
Philosophical Reflections on Time and Self
The concept of time and identity has long fascinated philosophers. Heraclitus wrote, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” This metaphor captures the fluidity of life—the idea that we are in constant flux, shaped by our experiences, and that our sense of self changes with time. But does language influence how aware we are of this constant change? Might English speakers, bound by tense, feel more compelled to track each step of the journey, while speakers of tenseless languages flow more freely from one stage of life to the next?
In contrast to Heraclitus, Nietzsche, in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, explored the concept of the “eternal recurrence,” where life endlessly repeats itself in a cycle. This idea might reflect the way tenseless languages frame identity—not as a linear progression with distinct chapters but as a continuous flow. In Mandarin or Indonesian time may feel more cyclical, more fluid. For speakers of these languages, maybe the past is not a foreign land but a place we can revisit and perhaps never entirely leave behind.
Whether we experience time as a constantly changing river or a continuous cycle, it's clear that language is not merely a tool for communication. It is the framework within which we understand ourselves. By imposing or relaxing time’s grip, it shapes our journey through life, subtly altering how we view the story of who we are.
Language as a Time Machine
In this way, language becomes a kind of time machine—one that doesn’t merely allow us to travel back through our memories, but subtly guides how we experience and interpret the journey. It shapes not only what we remember but how familiar or foreign those memories feel. By requiring us to specify certain details about time, emotion, or relationships, language constructs the narrative of our childhood, adulthood, and everything in between.
The question, then, is not simply whether we change over time, but whether our language allows us to see that change. Those who speak languages with obligatory tense may be more likely to perceive the past like a foreign country, inhabited by versions of themselves that no longer exist. For others, whose languages blur the lines between then and now, the past may feel like home—a place they never truly left.
But here’s the most critical part: language may shape us, but it does not imprison us. As poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, "let us believe in a long year that is given to us, new, untouched, full of things that have never been." Language may offer the framework, but we hold the brush, painting the story of who we are. By becoming aware of how our language shapes our perception of time and identity, we gain the power to transcend it, to reframe our personal narrative, and ultimately, to reshape who we believe ourselves to be. Language, after all, is not just a reflection of our thoughts—it is also a tool for creating new possibilities.
Rothman asks, “Is the fix already in, or will our stories have surprising twists and turns?” Perhaps the answer lies in the words we use to tell those stories..
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References and Further Reading
Joshua Rothman wrote the excellent article Becoming You that inspired this essay; I highly encourage you to read it on the New Yorker.
The Roman Jakobson quote comes from his paper On Linguistic Aspects of Translation. Emphasis in the original.
Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time can be hard to follow at first. I recommend the revised edition as the most accessible.
Additional details of Boroditsky’s fascinating study can be found in her original paper, Remembrances of Times East.
Elizabeth Loftus’ original study is compared with similar experiments.
Heraclitus renounced the throne of Ephesus in the 6th century B.C. to study and teach philosophy. His book On Nature has not survived intact, but fragments have been preserved and give a tantalizing glimpse of the complete work.
The ideas Nietzsche presented in Thus Spoke Zarathustra (“God is dead” and the idea of the Superman, in particular) were later appropriated and subverted by the Nazis, interpretations of his writing that still persist in the popular understanding. It is worth reading his work for yourself to understand his ideas in their original context.
The quote from Rilke is taken from a 1907 letter to his wife Clara. Emphasis added.
Further Reading - For another look at how language shapes the way we see the world, read the NY Times article Does Your Language Shape How You Think?