I was in 6th grade when my Macedonian literature teacher was teaching us about literary devices. I loved tearing into the words of every line of a poem, trying to uncover every possible meaning the author could have conveyed with their skillful use of letters.

When we got to patriotic poems, I could simply no longer relate. I remember analyzing their motifs, imagery, and emotions – I could rationally understand them, but there was no deeper emotional resonance. I just could not grasp how one could get inspired by the love for their country – to me, it was the equivalent of writing about something that is just there, with no additional meaning.

It took me a decade to grapple with the underlying cause of my reluctance to enjoy patriotic poetry – it was not the genre I disliked, but my own national identity.

How was I supposed to learn to love it?

Everything about me that was a subject of compliments and praise was something that made me ‘less Macedonian’. I was called talented because I could speak English with no traces of an accent. I was perceived as cultured because I read foreign authors, listened to foreign music, and had opinions, which at the time, were not representative of the majority. I attended hip-hop classes instead of folk dance. If I happened to like something Macedonian, it could not only be a pleasure but had to be a guilty pleasure. The less Macedonian I was, the more exceptional it made me.

Every social gathering would spiral into political discussions, every rant-like Facebook status would use such harsh language to refer to ourselves — self-hateful language that would likely never be used to refer to any other group of people.

As I grew up and my high school years crept in, there was a recurring comment I received from practically every adult: “There is no future for you here.” My fellow people had repeatedly let me know that being good at what I do clashes with being Macedonian. The path I would have to walk to get to my final destination was not on the ground where I took my first steps.

So I left. I packed my bags and embarked on a journey that took me all the way to the shores of western Norway. The prophecy was fulfilled. I made it. I would now be even less Macedonian, as there were 3,167 kilometers between me and the ground I first learned to walk on.

Up north, I wanted to nurture my love for poetry, so I took self-taught Macedonian literature. It was not a conscious decision from a place of reawakening of my identity, but a logistical decision to take a class I knew I would do well at. While looking at possible works to read, I stumbled upon the patriotic poems I once rolled my eyes at. Except, their sorrowful longing for the home and love for the nation were no longer just themes I analyzed, but feelings that infiltrated every aspect of my being. Every word simultaneously felt like a dagger to the heart and a mother’s gentle, loving touch. It was only then that I realized how people could write such poems. It was only then that I realized just how Macedonian I truly am.

As my years of living abroad piled up, writing in my native language became increasingly more difficult. The sentences that used to roll off my tongue with ease now seemed unnatural, less poetic, less real – they were calculated combinations of words that at times I was unsure how to connect.

What had not changed though, was the feeling of home. No matter how long I was away, I always had an army of the most loving, generous, and kind people to come back to. The people who taught me how to eat, walk, talk, love, give, care and support.

When I used to think of my nation, I used to think of corruption, political elites and scandals, a lack of faith in governmental authorities, limited opportunities, and diplomatic struggles due to the consistent bullying from neighboring countries in a region where ‘Love Thy Neighbor’ has not been put to practice in decades.

But I learned to love the undying resilience that my nation has shown throughout the centuries, withstanding heart-shattering historical conditions, but surviving through them with a fiery spirit and gracious perseverance.

There are many things you can try to take from a nation – their name, their land, their lives, their autonomy, their rights, their freedoms. But one thing that can never be taken is the love for the national identity its people will have – as long as those poems are recited, stories told, recipes cooked, and memories kept safely, and passed down throughout generations, their identity can never be taken.

I used to sit out the traditional music section at every wedding. I would sip my drink patiently until a band or a DJ showed up. The trumpets and drums felt like an invasive noise that usurped the space I occupied.

A few weeks ago, I attended my first wedding at which I stood up and danced during this segment. The music no longer felt like noise, it was now the sound of home. As the trumpets echoed across the spacious hall I was dancing in, surrounded by my people, I felt a type of joy I rarely feel abroad – the pure joy of not being a stranger. It was that joy that made me remember the sentence, “You have no future here.”

At that moment, I realized just how wrong that statement was. Because no matter in which corner of the world my future takes place, what will make it Macedonian is me being in it. And as far away as I might stray, I always know where I will want to come back to.