The moment I step off the plane in Lisbon I’m immediately immersed in the melodic rise of Portuguese voices and something shifts inside me. I feel it in my chest. I’m home!

It is hard to explain. A wave of emotion rises as the language of my childhood wraps itself around me.

Coffee culture is sacred in Portugal. A quick expresso, often paired with a creamy “pastel de nata”, is more than a ritual,  it is a taste of home. And right by the luggage belts at Lisbon airport, there it is, the first coffee shop. I head straight to it. The staff take one look at me and they just know. No hesitation. They speak to me in Portuguese, I feel welcomed and  respond happily without thinking. It’s effortless. It is simply right.

I usually fly in from Austria, where I live with my Austrian husband and our daughter. 15 and already fluent in five languages, she  is also learning Chinese and Korean now. At home, we move gently between languages. Portuguese with me, German with her father, English together – our first shared language, the one we fell in love with.

But Portuguese? That’s the language of my soul. It’s where I feel most myself. It holds my beginnings, my family, my emotions.

If it were a colour, it would be the deep blue of the Atlantic, the golden yellow of a sandy beach and warm earthy tones touched by sun and memory. The colours of home.

English was the first foreign language I learned and it holds a special place in my life. I grew up in a home where cinema and music in English were cherished. It opened a new world to me and with it, the world of literature.

Though I read in my mother tongue,  I confess I read far more in English. When I could read in English, it began with Agatha Christie and grew in a lifelong journey.  From Jane Austen’s romantic wit, to Virginia Wolf’s waves, Muriel Spark’s sharpness, Daphne du Maurier’s shadows, Ian McEwan’s quiet brilliance, William Boyd’s amazing historical prose and many, many others.

If English were a colour, it would be the layered greys of a North Sea sky. Dramatic, moody, full of thought. But not all is somber. The deep red of brick houses scattered through English towns holds the humour, the warmth and the quiet absurdity I’ve come to love.

Learning French opened the door to a rich world, its music and its cinema grounded in realism and social questions, and its literature, layered with atmosphere, philosophy and quiet poetry. Through French, I found the voices of  Camus, Proust and  Dumas, and later, the reflexions of  Annie Ernaux, the provocation of Michel Houellebecq, the intimacy of Leila Slimani, the tenderness of Valerie Pérrin. French feels to me like a thinking language that lingers, that invites long conversations over small things like Proust with his madeleine.

If French had a palette, it would begin in gold and brown. The elegance of faded grandeur, the warmth of ancient libraries and the stillness of carved grace, Mary holding her son in timeless sorrow. But also lavender blue, the colour of fields, its light and its painter’s dreams.

I grew up hearing Spanish, the language of our neighbours. Every Easter, crowds of Spanish tourists crossed into Portugal, drawn by good food and better prices. We crossed in the other direction, chasing Tapas and famous Spanish sweets from Badajoz. We Portuguese could always understand their words better than they could understand ours. Spanish felt familiar, almost like a sibling.

Later I studied it properly, moving beyond overheard conversations and magazines. But it was in Mexico, where I lived for almost 5 years and where my daughter was born, that Spanish truly settled into my heart. Mexican Spanish was different, softer, warmer. Diminutives, nicknames, little terms of endearment, especially for children, were everywhere. Friends became family. The language became home.

Mexican writers like Laura Esquivel with her warm, vivid and sensuous prose, allowed my imagination to run wild and reminded me to see life as bold, complex and filled with colour.

If Spanish were a colour, it would be the deep, steel grey of the Guggenheim in Bilbao, solid, strikingly fused with the fiery oranges and golden yellows of Mexican walls, lively markets and warm family gatherings.

Curious to see how others feel, I asked two friends, both multilingual like me, how they experience the emotional side of their languages. Here is what they shared.

My friend Carolina, of Spanish and Palestinian descent, grew up in Saudi Arabia where she still lives and is now raising her family. She told me:

“It is hard to separate my three languages, they have always coexisted. At home I spoke Spanish with family and friends. School was in Arabic and English. Each language shaped me differently, influencing how I express myself and how I relate to others. Spanish, tied to my early years, carries emotional edge, when I speak it, I’m louder, more animated. Sometimes Arabic softens me, my tone lowers and some feelings seem to find their truest form in its words. English, now linked more to adulthood, brings clarity but a certain distance. Each language evokes its own culture and identity.When I’m emotional I reach for English, when I am angry, Spanish and Arabic rise to the surface.”

If Arabic was a colour, she said, it would be the hues of Autumn, deep green, brown, orange and yellow. Spanish would glow in summer colours, white, yellow, red, light green. And finally English would shimmer in metallic tones like silver.

My other friend Gogo, is of Iranian descent but has lived most of her life in Austria. She shared this with me:

“German is the language I studied in, the language of my work, of architecture. It’s precise, structured, the language of logic and reasoning. It helps me build and plan, to navigate the professional world with clarity.

But Farsi … Farsi is where my emotions live. It’s the language of love, of poetry and of memory. It’s what I speak with my family and closest friends. When I return to Iran, it’s the language that fills the air in the quiet cafés of Tehran, and in the art galleries I visit every Friday, wandering among colours and canvases, immersed in that unique rhythm of culture and connection.

Farsi speaks to the heart. German speaks to the mind. I live in both.

If Farsi were a colour, it would be turquoise, vibrant yet serene. The colour of intricate tiles and  of domes under sunlit skies. German would be red, strong and grounded. The colour of structure and purpose.”

What about you? I would love to know how you feel about your languages. Share a comment bellow!