The Beautiful Messiness of Loving Across Cultures

TL;DR

Cross-cultural relationships can feel like a constant act of translation—not just of words, but of identity, values, and invisible rules. Whether it’s love, friendship, or your workplace, there’s beauty in the messiness of not always knowing the script. This piece offers gentle encouragement to stay curious, embrace your roots, and allow connection to deepen through imperfection, not despite it.

Key Takeaways

• You are not alone in feeling like you're translating yourself for others—it's a common experience for skilled immigrants.
  
  
• Misunderstandings can be invitations: Often, they lead to a deeper connection when met with empathy and curiosity.
  
  
• You don’t have to choose between authenticity and belonging—your full self is the bridge, not the barrier.
  
  
• Initiating connection helps: Simple acts, such as naming a specific time to meet or sharing a personal tradition, often unlock genuine rapport.
  
  
• Relationships deepen when we pause to understand each other’s rhythms, not just our words.
  
  

Some thoughts on finding your way when your heart speaks multiple languages

You know what nobody tells you about moving countries? It's not just that you'll miss the foods from home or struggle with new accents. It's that you'll spend months—maybe years—feeling like you're constantly translating not just words, but entire ways of being human.

I was thinking about this yesterday as I watched my neighbour's kids playing in their garden, switching effortlessly between English and Mandarin, and I remembered my early days in the UK. I'd stand in the office kitchen making tea (because that's what you do in England, right?), but even something that simple felt loaded with unspoken rules I didn't understand. Was I supposed to offer to make everyone tea? Was it rude not to? And why did my colleague Sarah always say "Oh, you're so sweet, but I'm fine" when I offered to make her tea, even though she'd make herself one five minutes later?

It wasn't just work, either. I remember this dinner party where I brought a bottle of wine and spent the whole evening apologising for being a few minutes late, for not bringing the right kind of wine, for asking too many questions about the food. I kept catching myself saying "sorry" and wondering why everyone seemed so relaxed when I felt like I was constantly getting things slightly wrong. By the time I got home, I felt like I'd been performing in a play where everyone else knew the script but me.

And don't even get me started on dating. I once spent three months thinking this lovely guy wasn't interested because he never texted between dates, only to discover later that he thought constant texting was clingy and that spacing it out showed respect. We were both trying so hard to be considerate that we nearly missed each other entirely.

But here's what I've come to understand after 18 years of calling Australia home: all that confusion and fumbling around? Those moments when you realise you've completely misunderstood something—they're not signs that you don't belong. They're actually openings for deeper connection, if you're brave enough to lean into them.

Take my former colleague Li. She was from China, and when we first started team-teaching together, our planning sessions felt oddly stilted. She'd listen carefully to all my ideas, nod thoughtfully, then quietly implement something completely different in her classroom. I started wondering if she thought my suggestions weren't good enough, and I suspect she thought I was being pushy by offering so many ideas in the first place. Then one day, over lunch, she mentioned feeling overwhelmed by how quickly I expected decisions to be made. "Back home," she said, "we take time to consider all possibilities before choosing. Quick agreement often means we haven't thought deeply enough."

That conversation shifted everything. I realised that her quiet consideration wasn't dismissal—it was respect for the complexity of teaching. She helped me see that slowing down actually led to better decisions, and I helped her understand that in our school culture, thinking out loud together was valued. Our planning sessions became these beautiful blends of immediate brainstorming and thoughtful reflection, and honestly? Our students benefited so much from both our approaches.

It's funny how these little cultural translations can transform everything. My friend Sarah from Germany used to think Australians didn't really like her because they'd always say "We should catch up!" but then nothing would happen. She'd go home feeling confused and a bit hurt. Until her neighbour Emma explained that around here, that's often just friendly noise—real connection happens when someone suggests an actual time and place. Once Sarah started saying, "How about coffee this Saturday at 10?" instead of waiting for invitations, she discovered that people had been hoping she'd take the initiative all along.

And my friend Priya—she spent two years hiding her Indian traditions from her Australian partner because she thought they might seem too foreign, too much. Then Diwali came around, and she was feeling so homesick that she just broke down and told him how much she missed celebrating with her family. Instead of backing away, he asked if they could celebrate together. They spent the evening making samosas (his were terrible, but enthusiastic), lighting diyas, and she told him stories her grandmother used to tell her. Later, he said it was the first time he really felt like he knew her, not just the version of her that fit into his world, but the whole beautiful, complex person she actually was.

That's when I started to understand something important: we don't have to choose between honouring where we come from and embracing where we are. The most beautiful connections happen when we bring our whole selves to the table—our accents and our stories, our different ways of showing love and handling conflict, our holidays and our comfort foods.

But it's lonely sometimes, navigating all this cultural translation. After I moved to Australia, I joined this multicultural book club, mostly because I was desperate for friends, and they were reading a book I actually wanted to discuss. What I found there wasn't just friendship—it was recognition. Here were people who also knew what it felt like to explain their name pronunciation for the hundredth time, to navigate the subtle differences in humour and communication, to feel like you're building a new version of home while honouring the one that shaped you.

But you know what surprised me? Some of my deepest friendships have come from people who don't share my cultural background at all. Like my friend Kate, who's fifth-generation Australian and has never lived anywhere else. She's endlessly curious about my stories, always asking thoughtful questions about traditions and perspectives. And in return, she helps me decode the subtle social rhythms I'm still learning. When someone says "no worries" here, she explained, they usually mean it—it's not passive-aggressive like I feared. When people invite you to a "casual barbecue," casual really does mean casual.

These friendships work because we're both willing to be cultural interpreters for each other. She doesn't make me feel weird for not understanding something that seems obvious to her, and I don't make her feel ignorant for not knowing something that's been part of my world forever. We just... help each other navigate.

The workplace thing took me longer to figure out. I used to think I had to choose between being authentically myself and being professional. But then I started bringing little pieces of my culture to work—sharing my mom's rusk recipe when someone mentioned missing their grandmother's baking, explaining why certain holidays mattered to me, and telling stories that revealed who I was beyond just my job title. It didn't happen overnight, but gradually those professional relationships deepened into something warmer, more human.

I think the secret—if there is one—is getting comfortable with being curious instead of assuming you understand. When something feels off in any relationship, whether it's with your partner or your colleague or that neighbour you're trying to befriend, instead of guessing what went wrong, try asking. "I'm sensing something shifted there—could you help me understand what just happened?" Most people are so relieved when someone acknowledges the awkwardness instead of pretending it didn't exist.

And here's something else I've learned: you don't have to master every cultural nuance to belong. Some of my most meaningful connections have come from moments of beautiful imperfection—when I've mispronounced something, or completely misunderstood a social cue, or tried to explain a tradition and gotten it slightly wrong. Those vulnerable moments, when we're clearly trying but obviously still learning, often create more intimacy than getting everything right ever could.

So if you're reading this while feeling caught between worlds, while wondering if you'll ever stop feeling like you're translating yourself for others, I want you to know: you're not broken. You're not too much or not enough. You're just human, trying to love and connect across the beautiful complexity of different ways of being. And that's not just okay—it's actually pretty wonderful.

Maybe start small this week. Share one story that reveals something real about where you come from. Ask one genuine question about something you don't understand. Suggest one actual plan instead of waiting for others to take the initiative. See what happens when you bring a little more of your whole self to the table.

Because here's what I've discovered: the world doesn't need you to sand down your edges to fit in. It needs you to stay beautifully, authentically yourself while learning to dance with all the other beautiful, authentic selves around you.

And sometimes, the most profound belonging happens not when we finally figure out all the rules, but when we find the courage to admit we're still learning them.

FAQ

Why do I feel like I’m always performing in new cultural spaces?

Because you’re trying to be both respectful and real, navigating unfamiliar norms while holding onto who you are. That’s not failure; it’s relational intelligence in action.

What if I get it wrong?

You will. We all do. But those “wrong” moments often become the doorway to deeper understanding and intimacy. Mistakes don’t exile you—they humanise you.

How can I show up more fully without overwhelming others?

Start small. Share a story that shaped you. Offer context for a tradition. Let curiosity guide the pace. You don’t need to present everything—just something real.

Why does everyone say “we should catch up” but never follow through?

It’s often a local cultural rhythm—friendly but vague. Offering a clear plan like “coffee this Saturday at 10?” gives others permission to say yes with ease.

How do I make friends who genuinely see me?

Begin by showing up as someone who genuinely sees them. Curiosity, consistency, and a bit of vulnerability go a long way. You don’t need a crowd—just one or two people who get it.

If this resonates with your heart and you're ready to dive deeper into building confidence and belonging as a skilled immigrant, I'd love to walk alongside you. Join the waitlist for my Immigrant Confidence & Belonging Coaching Program—a space where we explore these themes with the gentle guidance and community you deserve.

Join the Waitlist →