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In 2015, I arrived in Shanghai after a long flight from Chicago, equipped with a work contract that spanned a year and a half, an overstuffed suitcase, and twenty additional boxes on their way. My entry into this vast and vibrant country was anything but traditional. Having previously spent time in Israel and Argentina, I fancied myself a 'global citizen,' convinced that I would seamlessly integrate into my new surroundings within weeks. However, reality proved otherwisemy confidence had been misplaced.

My initial lessons were swift and humbling. In China, the culture does not adapt to accommodate outsiders; rather, it demands that one learns to adjust and find their rhythm within its customs. The phrase 'because China' soon became my catch-all response to various puzzling experiences, underscoring the uniqueness and, at times, the perplexing nature of life in this country.

We settled in a high-rise complex that felt like a maze, towering over a city whose population rivals that of my husbands hometown. Over the years, I learned to embrace the quirks of local customs. For instance, whether during the peak of summers heat or the chill of winter, it was customary for restaurants to serve hot tea. Similarly, I grew accustomed to finding skin-whitening ingredients in nearly every face wash, a practice that initially left me bewildered.

These moments of cultural friction were often tempered by instances of joy. When a local would compliment my slowly improving Mandarin, it felt like a small victory. However, more frequently, I encountered children pointing at me, exclaiming, 'Look, mom, a laowai!'a term that simply means foreigner. No matter how many historic sites I visited, how many soap operas I watched, or how diligently I practiced writing Chinese characters, I quickly learned that my identity as a laowai was likely to remain permanent.

Recently, I returned to my hometown in the United States and participated in one of my cherished summer rituals: the Minnesota State Fair. This annual event, beloved by Midwesterners, is a celebration packed with carnival rides, agricultural exhibits, fireworks, and, of course, an abundance of fried treats. As I navigated through the fairgrounds, snapping photos of American flags and indulging in nostalgic delights, I felt an unsettling sense of reverse culture shock. The familiarity of home suddenly felt foreign, and I realized I no longer quite fit in with my football-loving, beer-drinking, farm-oriented friends.

The evolving landscape of my identity has led me to reconsider what 'home' means. My daily practices now reflect a blend of Eastern and Western influences. Where once I might have reached for over-the-counter medications, I now often turn to hot water for ailments and rely on Traditional Chinese Medicine, including practices like acupuncture and herbal remedies. My values have transformed in ways I never anticipated, creating a chasm between my past American upbringing and my present lifestyle.

This sense of displacement is not uncommon among expatriates. Its a bittersweet realization that as one adapts to a new culture, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain a connection with their roots. Living abroad has shifted my dreams; Ive exchanged the traditional image of a house with two kids and a white picket fence for the adventurous freedom to travel spontaneously across Asia.

As our world becomes more multicultural, the feelings of dislocation and the struggle to belong resonate deeply with many. Although I don't quite fit the mold of a 'third culture kid'a term coined by sociologist Ruth Hill Useem to describe those who grow up outside their parents' home countryI find myself identifying as a 'third culture adult.' This identity allows me to blend my American upbringing with the rich experiences I've gathered in China, creating a unique and fluid sense of self that defies traditional categories.

Despite this blend of cultures, I often find it challenging to relate to friends and family back home. They struggle to understand my desires to hike in the remote Tibet Autonomous Region or my fascination with black sesame desserts. Their experiences, such as renovating their bathrooms for the umpteenth time, feel just as distant to me as my life in Shanghai might seem to them.

After spending a decade in China, I have learned to embrace the peculiarities of my adopted culture with humor and humility. Once seen as a mere label indicating my foreignness, the term laowai has transformed into a badge of honorsymbolic of my journey and growth as an individual.

Looking ahead, I realize that my path is not solely about navigating the complexities of being a foreigner in another country; it is also about reconciling that identity with my American roots. Perhaps I am not meant to belong wholly to either culture but rather to find comfort within the spaces that lie between them, embracing the challenges and joys that come with my life in Shanghai.

Do you have a story to share about relocating to a city in Asia? If so, please reach out to the editor at akarplus@businessinsider.com.