In the country we’ve immigrated to, we’re strangers. After years abroad, we return to the place we’re supposed to call “home” only to feel like outsiders there, too.
The term “third culture kid” was, in essence, coined as a polite way of describing someone grappling with a profound identity crisis. Many of us can relate to this: uprooted from our home countries at a young age, perhaps in pursuit of a Western passport (which regrettably does smooth the path of life) or for opportunities perceived as limited at home. Our families migrated for what they believed to be a “better life,” yet, in the quest for stability, an unavoidable toll is paid—a crisis of identity that can take a lifetime to untangle, triggering a paralyzing sense of disorientation.
The first person to coin the term “Third Culture Kid” (TCK) was American sociologist Ruth Hill Useem in the 1950s to describe children who grow up in cultures distinct from their parents’. TCKs often develop multilingual skills, a global mindset, and an enhanced cultural awareness. Yet, as Useem cautioned, life as a TCK can breed a profound sense of restlessness and rootlessness, a feeling of belonging “everywhere and nowhere” at once.
For many TCKs, Western culture becomes embedded within us, shaping our thoughts and experiences to the core. It’s often not until later in life that a creeping sense of unease arises—a feeling that something is missing or misaligned, prompting us to ask: What does home even mean? The concept of “home” becomes a shifting reality, an elusive place we can’t quite pinpoint.
Many of us TCKs can’t help but wonder what it would be like to grow up in one place, rooted in a world we’ve known our entire lives, surrounded by people who look, speak, and live as we do. And yet, there’s an unspoken power in discovering your identity amid people who aren’t like you, a resilience in learning to navigate spaces where being true to yourself might not always be accepted or understood. Most TCKs emerge from this experience with a rare adaptability, able to read people intuitively, move through unfamiliar spaces with ease, and face whatever comes with a quiet strength—because, after all, discomfort has been their constant companion.
Rootlessness can carry its own gifts. It offers a kind of freedom—the chance to define ourselves, piece by piece, with an active effort to understand where we truly come from. Sometimes, it takes getting a bit lost to find an authentic sense of self. And that identity can become a rich amalgamation of the places we’ve been, so long as we hold on to our origins. In knowing where we’re from, we can finally make peace with who we are, even if “home” itself remains an open question.
So, from one TCK to another: go back home. Spend time with your grandparents and cousins, in your parents’ family home, to see the roots that shaped you. Learn your language, and understand the beauty of it, and yes, you will fuck up. Explore every corner of the place that birthed you—from the koshk selling that one familiar biscuit and the neighborhood mosque where everyone gathers for Eid, to the bawab standing guard under the apartment, perhaps a bit too watchful. As exhausting as it is to be a TCK in a perpetual loop of “who am I?”, we get something rare: the chance to consciously shape who we truly are. Finding ourselves isn’t a given—it’s a journey we get to choose.