So, I started learning Dutch while I was actually living in the Netherlands which, in theory, should make everything easier. Total immersion, real-life exposure, supermarkets full of words, right?
Wrong.
Let’s be clear: living in a country and understanding what anyone is saying are not the same thing. My first few weeks there, I smiled a lot. Nodded. Laughed when others laughed, even though I had no clue what was going on. Someone could have told me their hamster had exploded and I would’ve smiled and said “lovely.”
It didn’t take long to realise I had to learn the language or spend the rest of my time ordering the same sandwich from the same café, praying they’d never change the menu.
So, I started. Tentatively. First with the street signs, they felt safe. No one expects you to respond to a street sign. Then the public transport announcements. I picked up the general vibe: something had either gone terribly wrong or would arrive in three minutes. Maybe both.
I downloaded an app, the one with the friendly owl who is always watching. The owl celebrated my 3-day streak like I’d climbed Everest. I felt proud… until I skipped a day and the owl got weirdly passive-aggressive. “We missed you,” it said. “Your language goals did too.” I swear the app knows guilt better than most Catholic school teachers.
In the Netherlands, I started trying out small phrases. Very small. One-word small. I once tried to say “thank you very much” to a lovely cashier but panicked halfway through and ended up making a sound somewhere between a sneeze and a confession. She looked confused, then concerned. I took my groceries and left with the grace of a damp cardboard box.
But here’s the strange thing: despite the stumbles, I kept going. There’s something oddly addictive about learning a language you hear all around you — even if most of it sounds like someone trying to clear their throat and speak at the same time. Dutch isn’t a shy language. It’s assertive. It sounds like it means business. Even when it’s talking about cheese.
Once I left the Netherlands, I thought the urge to learn would fade. But weirdly, it didn’t. Maybe I was traumatised by how many times I’d misunderstood people. Maybe I missed the weirdly satisfying rhythm of the language. Maybe I was still determined to someday understand those fast, breathless train announcements that made me question whether I was on the right planet, let alone the right train.
So I kept going. Now, though, it’s different. I no longer have daily immersion just me, my apps, a few Dutch children’s books, and the occasional YouTube rabbit hole. I read menus for fun. I test myself with grammar I will never use in real life. I once spent an entire evening trying to understand why a verb had snuck to the end of the sentence like a guilty teenager. Still no idea.
And yes, it gets lonely. No more overheard conversations to decode. No bakery lines to rehearse sentences for. Just me, whispering strange phrases at home and hoping my neighbours don’t think I’m starting a cult.
Sometimes I doubt myself. Sometimes I think I’ve made up all the progress. I’ll listen to a video, get excited that I understood a full sentence, and then realise it was in English. Or I’ll try to speak out loud and suddenly develop a completely new accent that doesn’t exist in any languages.
But there are wins. Like realising I know what a sign says without translating. Like understanding the difference between two similar-sounding words and not accidentally saying “I am pregnant” when I meant “I am full.” Like recognising a joke in a Dutch TV show and actually laughing for the right reason.
Also, I’m no longer scared of the long words. You know the ones the kind that stretch across half the page like some kind of linguistic centipede. Once upon a time, I’d look at those and assume they were medical conditions. Now I know they’re just compound words. Long, yes. But logical. Which, if you ask me, is both comforting and horrifying.
And there’s something else. Something no app or phrasebook mentions: the emotional chaos of learning a language that’s so close to English, yet not quite. It feels like dating someone who reminds you of an old flame, familiar, but ultimately unpredictable. One moment, everything makes sense. The next, the sentence flips around and throws in a word that sounds like a sneeze.
But despite everything the confusion, the grammar acrobatics, the owl-induced guilt, I keep going. Because every now and then, I get this flash of clarity. A sentence that makes sense. A word that clicks. A tiny, fleeting moment where I feel like I’m in the language, not just chasing it. And those moments, odd as they are, feel magical.
Will I ever be fluent? Honestly, I don’t know. It depends what “fluent” means. If it means giving a TED talk about philosophy, probably not. If it means ordering a coffee without causing a scene, then I’m nearly there. If it means understanding people well enough to laugh at the right moment — that’s the goal.
Tomorrow, I’ll probably forget something obvious. I’ll probably mix up the word for “because” again. But I’ll also open my notebook, press play on the next audio, and try once more. Not because I have to, but because this is who I am now: someone who once lived in a country, heard a language, and decided, quietly, to try and understand it.
Even if it takes a lifetime.