The neat version is that I speak Burmese at home and English everywhere else. That is true and also not true. Most families in our position actually keep more than two languages in the air, and the third one often does not appear on any form we fill out. It is the language that was in the room before I was old enough to understand it, the one used when the door was closed or when two cousins wanted to keep something loose and playful.
I will not pretend I speak it properly. I understand it far better than I speak it, and I speak it only to the specific people I grew up speaking it with, and never say that to anyone official. It colours the way I say certain things even in Burmese, a word that slips in without warning. It is a private layer of the family, the one the outside world does not need to see, and the one that, on bad days, makes me feel both more and less like I belong to my own family.
I rarely choose which language to use. A sentence starts, and the language it starts in is whoever is in front of me and whichever word surfaces first. With my parents, Burmese, mostly. With friends from school and work, English. With my cousins, a mixture that looks careless to a stranger and makes total sense to us. Nobody in my family corrects this. We all understand that a thought does not care what language it lands in.
There are still moments of embarrassment. Forget the name of a common object in the wrong room and you sound lost. Translate a joke too literally to a friend and it dies. Explain to a colleague, again, that yes I do speak Burmese but no, I cannot instantly read the text they just forwarded. These are small, but they add up, and they are the part nobody warns you about when they celebrate multilingualism as some flawless superpower.
For all the friction, I would not trade it. The third language especially is a kind of extra memory, a way of reaching parts of my family that a single language cannot. When I say I love the country of my parents, I say it differently depending on the language, and each saying is a little real. Learning to live with the awkward parts, the mixing, the not-quite-fluent third tongue, has taught me that identity is not a clean answer. It is an ongoing, slightly messy conversation, and that is fine. It is mine.