Launching a career as a novelist seems like an impossible dream to many ― let alone doing so in a second or third language. But that’s exactly what Yiyun Li did after she graduated from college, moving from Beijing to the U.S. to study immunology at the University of Iowa; once there, she wound up honing her fiction-writing skills at the prestigious Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

In a poignant essay for The New Yorker, Li, now the acclaimed author of several novels and short story collections written entirely in English, meditates on what leaving Chinese behind and embracing a new language has meant for her:

Over the years, my brain has banished Chinese. I dream in English. I talk to myself in English. And memories—not only those about America but also those about China; not only those carried with me but also those archived with the wish to forget—are sorted in English. To be orphaned from my native language felt, and still feels, like a crucial decision.

Li writes that although she grew up in China, she’s only written professionally in English ― a fact that has caused some surprise and confusion. Though she notes it would be easy to assume that she left her home language for political reasons, as Vladimir Nabokov famously did, she delves into the thicket of personal history and emotional turmoil that motivated her. “Like all intimacies, the intimacy between one and one’s mother tongue can be comforting and irreplaceable,” she writes, “yet it can also demand more than what one is willing to give, or more than one is capable of giving.”

In delicately unraveling her own tangled relationship with the words she chooses to speak and write, Li sheds light on that most human of all relationships: that between oneself and one’s language.

You can, and should, read Yiyun Li’s full essay at The New Yorker.