There’s something that you need to know about me: I’m a water baby.

Allow me to explain. This isn’t the story of an all-natural water birth (though, admittedly, my mother’s expression when I tell her that I launched a fake water birth story about myself on the internet might just be worth it). Nor will I say that I’m an excellent swimmer. On the contrary, I’ve yet to pass my college’s mandatory swim test—but let’s not talk about that.

Instead, let’s talk about Penn’s Landing. It was last summer when I discovered this place during one of my spontaneous Philadelphia (or “Philly”, as I’ve learnt to call it now) excursions, right in the middle of one of my worst bouts of homesickness since I moved to the U.S. from Karachi, Pakistan one and a half years ago. I would set out on these excursions to assimilate myself in my new home, a city full of new streets, buildings, smells and colours that intimidated me with their foreignness—or rather, the way they constantly reminded me of my foreignness.

Most days, I would wander through Philly’s streets with my headphones on, half expecting the smell of chicken chatni rolls and makai (roasted corn) vendors around the corner, but being welcomed by smiling strangers offering cheesesteaks and soft pretzels instead. And while I enjoyed indulging in all these uniquely Philly experiences, I often found myself feeling slightly afraid: what if, in my attempts to overcome my homesickness, I was using my Philly experiences to override memories of Karachi, a city that shaped nineteen years of my life?

A part of me even feared that I wanted to succeed.

But that was before I found myself standing at Penn’s Landing, facing the great expanse of water that I later came to know as the Delaware River. When I first saw the water, I found myself placing my bag down and placing my legs over the concrete edge, letting my feet dangle several feet above the river’s quiet currents.

I peered down at my face, expecting to see my reflection, but I was surprised to see another face staring back at me. This was a slightly younger face from a recent memory: the last time I stood in the Arabian Sea in Karachi before I left, the water wrapping itself around me a little above my ankles.

Soon enough, the tears came flowing—salty, like the seawater I missed. This unwarranted vividness of emotion around water, I’ve realized now, is the true curse of the water baby—I always feel it when I’m around water, be it the Hudson River or the San Francisco Bay.

And yet, there was a difference in these tears from the ones I normally shed when I’m homesick. There was the familiar nostalgic pain that comes with remembering Karachi, but this time, it was mixed with a strange kind of happiness – I had finally found a place that allowed me to embrace my new life whilst paying tribute to the old. I could look at the Benjamin Franklin Bridge stretching itself across the horizon and feel at ease, knowing that this was an image that could peacefully coexist with my memories of Clifton Beach.

There was also some comfort in the thought that somewhere out there, a water particle may have travelled across Karachi’s shores, traversed across the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, and made its way into the Delaware River towards me (I can just imagine marine scientists rolling their eyes at this, but hey, I’m allowed some scientific inaccuracies for the sake of poetic expression).

So where does that leave this particular water baby? I’m still not sure when I’m going back to Karachi next. And, even if I do, there’s no denying that it will be a different place when I return, just as I will be a different person.

But, in the meantime, I want to continue seeking out new experiences that bring me closer to calling the U.S. home, starting with more frequent trips to Penn’s Landing.

And, of course, more cheesesteaks and soft pretzels.