Home is supposed to be a place you leave and return to. For me, it became something more complicated, something I carry, something I miss, and something people here will never fully see.
I was born in Thailand, where I grew up surrounded by my cousins, who feel more like younger brothers, and the rest of my extended family. My grandmother and aunt raised me while my mom worked away from home. Life was simple. In a way, I didn’t realize what was special at the time: riding bikes through the neighborhood, buying snacks with my cousins, and growing up in a place where everyone knew each other. Even strangers felt familiar.
When I was eight years old, I moved to Thailand to attend an international school. The goal was simple: learn basic English and prepare for a future my family hoped would open more opportunities. That was the first time I felt life shift. I was still in my country, but everything around me changed: language, routine, expectations, and the feeling of comfort I had always known. I still had family with my grandparents who moved too in order to take care of me, but the sense of familiarity was fading.
Two years later, at age 10, I moved to the United States.
That second move was different. It was not just a new city—it was a new world. I entered school barely understanding the language, trying to build myself from scratch while also trying not to lose who I already was. Now I only have my mom and my stepdad; at that time, there is no “family” like before.
What people often do not understand is that immigration is not just a change of location. It is a constant translation of identity. I speak three languages—Thai, Lisu, and English—but my mind is always shifting between them. At home, I speak Lisu with my family and mostly Thai with my mom. At school and in public, I speak English. Each language carries a different version of me, and none of them feels complete on its own.
In school, I learned quickly that speaking English well does not mean belonging. People assume fluency equals upbringing, but I did not grow up here. I learned English over the past few years, not my whole life. Even now, I still struggle with vocabulary that others consider common. Writing and reading can still be difficult, especially when everything assumes a cultural background I was never given.
It’s not just language that I need to learn, but I have to adapt to the culture that is on the opposite side of what I grew up in. The way people are, the way they behave, and one of the hardest things is food.
Belonging is not something people figure out on their own—it is something others choose to create through small, intentional actions. So ask where someone comes from and truly listen, showing real interest in their culture and experiences. Then go a step further and invite them into everyday moments, because what feels small to you can mean everything to someone who feels like an outsider.
The hardest part of being new here was not just language—it was distance. In Thailand, the community was automatic. People smiled at each other. Neighbors were familiar. Life felt shared. Here, I often feel like I exist alongside people rather than with them. It is not that people are unkind—it is that connection is quieter, less immediate, less expected.
That is where the phrase “a foreign will always be a foreign” comes from—not as defeat, but as truth. Even when you adapt, learn, and grow, there is still a gap between where you come from and where you are. I can live here, succeed here, and build a future here, but part of me will always belong somewhere else.
The easiest way to make someone feel like they belong is to make space for them in your world. I encourage you to help them build memories here, not just exist.
Because for someone who feels like a foreigner, your effort—no matter how small— can be the difference between feeling invisible and finally feeling at home.
Still, I have learned something important: being foreign does not mean being less. It means carrying multiple worlds at once. It means seeing life through more than one lens, even when it is exhausting.
Home is not just a place I left or a place I am building. It is both and neither fully. And maybe that is what it means to grow up between countries: not to choose one identity, but to learn how to live with both of them at once.
Hi, I'm Poppy -- a high school student at OHS. Who is very passionate about biomedical science and aviation, who also enjoys creative projects and exploring new ideas. You can contact me by emailing 42Fifty@sd308.org and putting my name in the subject line. We welcome comments on our articles and feedback on our publication!
