The Feeling Even the French Don’t Know the Name For.

The French have a word for the feeling of being out of place. It is one of those enigmatic words that inhabit many European languages, words that are neither noun nor verb but somehow both. A single word that conveys an entire feeling, action, and atmosphere all at once.

In fact, many French people I’ve spoken with have never heard of it.

That word is dépaysement.

Dépaysement is the gentle, elusive ache that tugs at one’s heart when they are somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere foreign to everything they once knew. It is not merely the feeling of being out of place; it is the sensation of a world slightly tilted, of skies painted in shades unknown, of the rhythm of life unfolding in an unfamiliar cadence.

When we first arrived in France, dépaysement was more than an idea. It was a daily companion. It showed up in small moments: the quiet of neighbors who didn’t wave like they did back home, the shopkeeper who switched to English the second I tried French, the hours spent trying to make sense of a utility bill written in bureaucratic poetry.

At first, it felt like I’d lost part of myself, the confident version who always knew how to navigate life. In California, I was fluent in the rhythm of things: the language, the customs, even the small talk. Here, every interaction came with a flicker of self-doubt.

But here’s the thing about dépaysement: if you stay with it long enough, it changes shape. The same disorientation that once made me feel small started to open me up. It stripped away the autopilot version of life, the one that moves from one familiar habit to the next, and forced me to notice again.

You start seeing the world like a beginner: the way the morning light hits the stone walls, the smell of fresh bread cooling on a counter, the sound of laughter drifting from a café. The very things that unsettle you at first are what eventually create space for growth.

Somewhere along the way, dépaysement stopped feeling like an ache and started feeling like a teacher. It reminded me that comfort isn’t the goal; awareness is.

When you move to another country, you expect to change your address. What you don’t expect is how much the change of scenery rewires your sense of self. You learn who you are without the shortcuts, without your language, your routines, your certainty. You rediscover what it means to belong, not because the world recognizes you, but because you’ve learned to recognize yourself again.

France didn’t just give me a new home. It gave me a new relationship with uncertainty. It taught me that being adrift isn’t something to fear. It’s an invitation to grow, to rediscover yourself in a world that doesn’t yet know who you are.

And isn’t that what we’re all searching for, in one way or another?