As I’ve written my stories and shared them on social media, I’ve connected with many new friends from around the world. Recently I received a message from Dani, who grew up on a ship and in England, and publishes a blog with stories of people who have moved between cultures. Her intent is for people to see that their culture shocks and identity crises are problems a lot of us share. She posted my story on her blog here. I’m including the full story below, for you.

Glossary of abbreviations:

MK means “missionary kid” ~ a child of missionary parents.

TCK means “third culture kid” ~ someone raised in two or more cultures who never completely belonged to any of them. Therefore, they essentially formed a unique culture of their own, which was a combination of all the cultures they’ve known.

Longing to Live Elsewhere

I’m an adult MK/TCK who grew up in Nigeria. Mostly.

Born in California on my parents’ first furlough, I flew to Nigeria at nine months old. Our cozy village station lay nestled in a semi-circle of hills studded with rocky outcroppings and Savannah brush. But beginning in first grade, I was sent to a boarding school 300 miles north, only returning home for Christmas and summer vacations.

During those lengthy separations from family, I suffered from intense homesickness. Many nights I cried alone in bed, feeling abandoned by God and my parents. By fourth grade I toughened up and accepted that way of life as normal, but hidden wounds remained.

Every few years my family and I left Nigeria and flew to my parents’ home state of California. Those long furlough journeys included visits to New York to debrief at mission headquarters and side trips to various states to connect with relatives and supporters. So many were strangers to me. I quickly grew close to my cousins, only to be torn away again as my family traveled further west across the U.S.

Quite often TCKs say, “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” But each time I hear that phrase, I swallow a lump in my throat, and it sinks like a stone to the pit of my stomach. I feel like I’m failing at being a happy Christian. Why can’t I say those words? I wonder. Am I ungrateful? Do I have blinders on? Am I wallowing in the negative?

There were happy times on my station of Egbe, in the Nigerian savannah. My life was open and free. But those blissful days were overshadowed by the knowledge I’d have to leave my home with the big climbing trees, grassy yard, and the dusty paths leading to friends’ homes, and head back to boarding school.

Boarding school. The very words brought up hard feelings: cloistered, imprisoned, squelched, claustrophobic, closed in. Just one kid out of many. My heart felt boarded up and I asked, Who am I?

Quite often, I dreamed of living in the States in a two-story house on a square block in a neighborhood of neatly manicured lawns. The idyllic homes we visited every Sunday after church, when a family invited the missionaries to dinner during our furlough month, were beautifully decorated. The kids’ rooms were full of dolls and books and toys. Always the questions and confusion rose in my mind. Who am I? Why can’t I live here?

However, many of my adult American friends now share deeply distressing stories of their childhood in the perfect-looking homes I once envied. Dads who focused too much on work and not on their kids. Moms who spun from crazy-happy to crazy-crazy in a split second. Grandmothers, cold and angry, crossed their arms instead of hugging. Grandfathers embraced their little girls far too close and for too long.

Their true-to-life stories help me realize my life wouldn’t have been perfect in America either.

I still can’t say I’m grateful for all my painful childhood experiences or, “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

But at least I’m longing, a little bit less, to have lived elsewhere.