The Mirror Moment
I was standing in the bathroom of a coworking space, reapplying lip gloss before a networking event. Two women walked in, laughing about something in Yoruba, and my shoulders went tight. For a second, I didn’t know why. Then it hit me: I was about to walk out there and become Professional Ziona. The Ziona who enunciates every syllable, who laughs a little softer, who says “I’m fine, thank you” instead of “I dey o.”
I caught my own eye in the mirror and felt a sudden, quiet sadness. It wasn’t new. It was the same thing I’d carried since my first internship in Lagos, where I learned to tuck my real laugh behind a more acceptable one. I’d been code-switching for so long that I’d started to think the switched version was the one people wanted. The one I wanted. But standing there, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let someone meet me fully.
What Code-Switching Really Meant for Me
When I first heard the term, I thought it was just about language. Shifting from Pidgin to English when speaking to my boss, or from casual English to the formal kind when writing a proposal. But over time, I realized it was bigger. It was shrinking my voice in meetings so I wouldn’t sound too assertive. It was straightening my hair for interviews because I worried my natural curls would read as “unpolished.” It was pretending not to know certain songs or inside jokes because I didn’t want to seem too “local.”
I’d built a whole second self, and she was exhausted.
There were small moments that stuck with me. A colleague once told me, “You sound so different when you’re on the phone with your sister.” I laughed it off, but I felt caught. Another time, a friend from university visited my apartment and said, “This is the real you,” pointing at the afrobeats playlist and the pepper soup on the stove. I realized I’d been living in compartments, and the seams were starting to show.
The Cost of Fitting In
Code-switching wasn’t something I did for fun. It was a survival tool. In spaces where I was the only one who looked or sounded like me, fitting in felt like protection. If I could make myself easier to digest, I’d be safer. More hireable. More likable. And honestly, it worked. I got the jobs. I got the nods in meetings. But the price was a slow erosion of something I couldn’t name at first.
I started feeling hollow after social events. I’d replay conversations and cringe at my own performance. I’d notice how often I said “yes” when I wanted to say “that doesn’t sit right with me.” The exhaustion wasn’t just mental; it was physical. By Friday evenings, I’d collapse into my couch, too drained to even text friends back.
One evening, I was talking to my mother on the phone, and she said, “Ah, Ziona, why are you speaking like that? You sound like a newscaster.” I laughed, but she wasn’t joking. She said, “I miss your real voice.” That was the first crack.
The Unlearning Process
Deciding to stop code-switching wasn’t a single dramatic moment. It was a series of tiny, terrifying choices. The first one happened at a team lunch. Someone asked how my weekend was, and instead of saying “It was lovely, thank you,” I said, “It was sweet. I went to a owambe on Saturday and my feet are still recovering.” A few people looked confused, but one Nigerian colleague grinned and said, “You danced, abi?” And just like that, I felt a little more solid.
Not every attempt landed that well. There were times I slipped into old habits, especially in high-stakes settings. I’d catch myself code-switching mid-sentence and feel a pang of disappointment. But I started to notice something: the more I let people see my whole self, the less I attracted relationships that required me to shrink. The colleagues who valued me stayed. The ones who wanted the performance slowly drifted, and that was okay.
What “Whole Self” Actually Looks Like
Bringing my whole self doesn’t mean I’m the same in every room. It means I’m not hiding the parts that make me me. I still adjust my communication depending on context—that’s just being human. But I no longer erase my accent, my references, or my humor. I let my natural hair be what it is on any given day. I say “I no gree” when something doesn’t work for me, even if I have to explain it afterward.
It’s also meant embracing the fact that some people won’t get it. And that’s not a reflection of my worth. I used to internalize every blank stare as a sign that I was doing something wrong. Now I see it as a sign that they’re being introduced to something new. If they’re curious, we talk. If they’re not, we move on.
The Unexpected Gifts
When I stopped code-switching, I thought I’d lose connections. Instead, I found deeper ones. Friends I’d known for years started telling me they felt like they were meeting me for the first time. My work became more creative because I wasn’t filtering my ideas through a lens of “what sounds professional enough.” I started writing in a voice that felt like mine, and people responded to it.
There was also a quiet gift: I began to trust myself. For so long, I’d treated my natural instincts as something to overcome. But my instincts were never the problem. The problem was a culture that told me they weren’t enough. Letting them breathe was like taking off a too-tight shoe at the end of a long day—painful at first, then incredibly relieving.
Still a Work in Progress
I won’t pretend I’ve arrived. Some days, I still find myself slipping back into the performance, especially when I’m anxious. I’ll be on a call with a potential client and hear my voice climb into that unnaturally bright register, and I’ll mentally kick myself. But I’m quicker to notice now. And quicker to course-correct.
What helps is reminding myself why I started this. I didn’t stop code-switching to become a different person. I stopped so I could become more of the person I already was. The one who laughs loudly, who says “e don do” when she’s had enough, who carries her culture not as a thing to manage but as a thing to share.
Questions I Get Asked Often
Isn’t code-switching just being professional?
There’s a difference between adapting to a setting and erasing yourself. Professionalism doesn’t require you to hide your accent, your cultural references, or your personality. It requires clarity, respect, and competence. Those things can coexist with your authentic self.
What if people judge me for not switching?
Some will. That stings, and I won’t minimize it. But over time, you build a kind of muscle for it. You start to see that their judgment says more about their limited worldview than about your worth. And the people who do get it? They make the risk feel worth it.
How do I start showing up more fully?
Start small. Pick one low-stakes setting—a coffee date, a casual chat with a trusted friend—and let one authentic part of you show. Maybe it’s a phrase you’d normally suppress, or an opinion you’d soften. Notice how it feels. Build from there. There’s no finish line, just practice.
Does bringing your whole self mean you never adapt?
Not at all. Adaptation is part of being social. But there’s a line between adapting and disappearing. I still read the room. I just don’t rewrite myself to fit it.
The journey away from code-switching has been less about learning new things and more about unlearning old ones. It’s been slow and tender and sometimes lonely. But every time I choose to be fully Ziona—in all my mixed-up, multilingual, unapologetic fullness—I feel a little more at home in my own skin. And that, I’ve learned, is the only home that really matters.
