I don't want to forget it.

With every thought I conjure in English I feel it withering. Whenever I wanted to express myself to my mother I couldn't muster up the words–and not because of fear or embarrassment but I could not put my feelings into arabic. I had to meticulously plan what to say, sometimes even translating words because I couldn't remember what they meant. This fear only sharpened after I'd read Babel by R.F. Kuang in which a character, Griffin, went through an unmistakably gut wrenching event of losing his native tongue. His sturdy words felt like being spat on the face. I’m curious to know whether this guilt is simply an idiotic longing of linguistic legacy or is it justifiable?