Between Cultures, Finding Home

This piece was born because earlier this morning, my husband landed in Canberra for a short course. Seeing him return to that city unlocked a flood of memories: our 13 months of living there as a family. Back then, our eldest was six, falling in love with reading. Our youngest was only eighteen months old, busy learning words and running around with unstoppable energy.

For us, Canberra was more than a city. It was a testing ground, a classroom, and a place to grow. Our kids learned a new language, new games, new friends. My husband wrestled with academic life at ACSC, far from his usual military rhythm. And I tried to be the anchor, keeping it all together. Now, as I watch him return—though only for a week—the memories feel sharper. I realize those days weren’t just about moving abroad. They were about shaping identities: our children as Third Culture Kids, my husband in international academia, and myself learning what it means to accompany them.

The term Third Culture Kids (TCKs) refers to children who grow up between two cultures. They carry their family’s culture, absorb the host country’s culture, and eventually form a third identity—distinct, blended, and often unique.

Being a TCK is like carrying many colors at once. On the one hand, they are adaptable, quick to read situations, and tend to see the world with wide-open eyes. They are curious, comfortable with change, and often empathetic to difference. But on the other hand, there is a challenge: the question “Where do I truly belong?” often lingers. They may speak two languages, yet feel that neither is completely theirs. They may live in two cultures, yet feel not fully part of either.

I saw this clearly when our eldest started primary school in Canberra. He was only six, but already navigating a new education system, classmates from diverse backgrounds, even jokes he didn’t always understand. Questions like “Can I keep up?” or “Will I be accepted?” became very real. This is the face of a TCK: a child encountering cross-cultural identity not as theory, but in daily life.. on the playground, in the classroom, in the rhythm of school.

Something else quietly blossomed during that time. Canberra, with its many places that tell stories of history, from museums and monuments to public spaces—sparked in him a love for world history. His curiosity was ignited by what he saw and experienced, and he carried it home through reading. Even today, his passion for history books remains strong, even though many of them are written for adults. To me, that is a gift: from a calm and modest city, my child learned to fall in love with the grand stories of the world, in his own way.

As parents, we were learning too. Our role was not to force quick adaptation or demand instant belonging, but to walk alongside that search. Because being a TCK is not just a label—it is an unfolding journey that shapes how a child sees themselves, sees the world, and ultimately discovers what “home” means.

Meanwhile, my husband carried his own mission. At ACSC, his noble goal was to graduate and earn an MMDS degree at ANU. The challenge was not only academic but also psychological. We had been high school buddies—and academic rivals. I had pursued academia first, earning that degree eleven years earlier. For him, the struggle wasn’t just writing essays. It was proving himself, facing the shadows of comparison, and finding his own rhythm.

Watching him, I saw the shift. From a military pilot used to concise reports and sharp instructions, he now had to write lengthy essays with theoretical arguments, references, and formal language. It felt like changing battlefields: from the cockpit to the library. Sometimes I teased him, “Come on, this isn’t a flight log, it’s an essay.” That little humor made the process lighter. I became his sparring partner—proofreading drafts, asking critical questions, holding space for his growth. From teenage rivals, we had become adult partners who carried each other.

At home, our rhythms were simple. He typed away on essays. Our eldest sat nearby, lost in his books. The youngest scribbled on scrap paper, then ran to the kitchen to “help” me cook—or sorted trash with great seriousness, bottles here, papers there. I was the thread tying it all together: checking essays, listening to book stories, laughing at a toddler with a soup ladle for a sword. That house was simple, but it taught us this truth: adaptation isn’t an individual project. It’s a family journey.

We were also blessed by supportive communities. Our eldest went to Duffy Primary School, where teachers didn’t just teach—they cared. Even today, they still ask about him. For a TCK, that continuity meant the world.

Our youngest found joy at GymbaROO. Through music, movement, and play, he built confidence. I still remember the sparkle in his eyes after class—it was always “I can!” not “I must.”

The Montessori community in Canberra opened our eyes, too. With follow the child, multi-age classrooms, and prepared environments, our kids thrived. Our eldest, who loved reading, felt safe choosing his own activities. Our youngest, full of energy, found freedom to learn through movement. Montessori reminded us: every child has their own path, and our role is not to limit but to support.

And then there was KKIC, the Indonesian Catholic Community in Canberra. It became our spiritual home. Sunday Mass, family fellowships—there was warmth, faith, and belonging. Among fellow Indonesians, we found not just community, but family.

These small circles—Duffy Primary, GymbaROO, Montessori, KKIC—carried us. They showed our kids that being different isn’t weakness, but strength.

Parenting TCKs, I learned, is not about making children perfectly adapted. There were days our eldest felt disconnected. Nights our toddler threw tantrums, frustrated with words. Our role wasn’t to fix everything. It was to be their safe harbor—where home meant unconditional acceptance.

Parenting TCKs is a colorful journey. There is laughter, tears, longing, gratitude. What makes it meaningful is the fact that we were never alone. There was Duffy Primary, GymbaROO, the Montessori community, and KKIC—small circles that held us together.

Our children’s third culture identity may not look like ours, nor like their peers’. But that is precisely its strength: they learn to see the world through more windows. As parents, our task is not to close those windows, but to make sure they have a home strong enough to return to anytime.

As my husband returns to Canberra this morning, even just for a week, I realize those memories are not fragments of the past. They are seeds that keep growing—teaching us the meaning of togetherness, of community, and of home. Perhaps that is what makes the TCK journey so extraordinary: it shows us that home is never just an address in a passport. Home is where love and identity meet.