Not From Here, Not From There…Still Here

Continuation of my first blog, "Belonging in the In-Between": A Further Reflection on Identity, Visibility, and Living in the Messy Middle

Let’s get one thing out of the way: belonging isn’t a finish line. It’s not a trophy you earn after enough years in one place, or even after you finally pronounce everything the right way. For many of us (third culture kids, artists, wanderers, performers,) belonging is a moving target. It lives in liminal spaces and whispers when we’re between languages, homes, gigs, or roles.

This isn’t a sob story. It’s a stage story.

Because when you grow up as both insider and outsider, ironically, performance stops being a mask. It becomes a way of translating your in-betweenness into something legible for yourself and others.

"Where Are You Really From?"

You’ve probably heard this one before, right? Delivered with a smile, maybe even with curiosity, but it lands like a brick in your throat. For those of us who grew up between cultures, this question has a thousand answers, none of which are quite right. In my case, I say, "I’m Japanese-American" when speaking to other Americans and "I'm Japanese" when speaking to Japanese people. It’s my self-definition, and it’s most likely not the definition most people would give me based on physical traits.

I lived in Japan during the years when identity was already wobbly, from birth to high school.

4 or 5 years old in Hamamatsu, Japan

There was a point where I couldn’t tell if I was being “too American" or "not Japanese enough" for anyone to accept me fully. That ache, the deep, quiet wondering of where you fit, never really disappears. But it does evolve.

Performance gave me a language for that. It provided costumes, characters, and scripts that said: you don’t need to pick one box. You can hold contradictions. You can be the question, not just the answer.

The Silent Epidemic We Don't Talk About

I’m going to get personal here. During my early years in Japan, I could have been one of those youth suicide statistics you see in articles. The ones where the numbers go up each year. I was in a different world mentally, lost, isolated, invisible.

I felt like an outcast in the world I existed in because I just didn’t fit in. In early elementary school, I have a vivid memory of being ignored and bullied for being too strong-willed. That made me a target, “ungirly” by Japanese standards and a threat to boys who had never encountered an example like me.

“Don’t touch or talk to her! She’s the disease itself. Gaijin-外人 (outsider/foreigner)!!”

Somehow, everything about what made me me was unacceptable, even to myself. I wanted to be like the Japanese girls, but I just wasn’t. My hair was the wrong color and texture. I was not skinny like them, and I was too outspoken and loud. I started to believe I was the problem. A lie or a comment someone made became the cage I trapped myself into.

I believed it. I believed that I was half and could never be whole. I believed that I was barbarous and destructive compared to them. They were the perfect ones, and I was not. I could not, nor ever would be, perfect enough to be considered Japanese. I was the one with tainted blood. And I did not want to be me.

I did not want to exist.

However, God had other plans. Somehow, I made it out.

Not everyone does.

I've lost young classmates and friends, some in Japan, some here in the States. That grief doesn’t wear a uniform. It doesn’t care if you’re Asian, American, third culture, or none of the above. The loss of another human is universal.

How can we collectively speak hope into younger humans who feel like there is no hope?

What I’ve noticed, especially among young people floating between cultures, is that the pressure to assimilate can suffocate.

Especially in Asian cultures, you’re taught to fit in, not to question and definitely not to stand out. 出る釘は打たれる- "the nail that sticks out gets hammered down"

Now, in America, it’s like a double layer of both extremes. Don’t fit in… but if you do, you’re not "representing your roots." Question everything… except there are things you have to agree to, or you must be "one of THEM" and ostracized. Stand out, as that’s what gets you attention and oppertunity… but if you do, you might become a target. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

And that makes spaces of performance and creativity, where identity is not just allowed but required, radical. Even life-saving.

Junior High School in Shizuoka. Had to carry a school ID card stating that I had naturally brown and 'wavy' hair as it was against school policy to have anything other than black straight hair.

The Stage is a Shelter

I don’t say that lightly.

For many of us, the stage is the first place we are seen. Not as someone’s daughter or the foreign-looking/ language speaking kid, but as a full, expressive being with a story to tell.

And not just a story,

a voice,

a body,

a presence.

A whole reality that deserves to exist.

Berea College Theatre Laboratory gave me space to be Agnes in “She Kills Monsters” by Qui Nguyen and Puck in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by Shakespeare. Martha Frazier, who directed at Little Colonel Playhouse, gave me space to be in the ensemble for “Women Playing Hamlet”by William Missouri Downs, with an all-female cast.

Agnes & Tilly - She Kills Monsters, Berea College Theatre Laboratory

Sometimes, your first standing ovation isn’t about the role you played. It’s about the permission it gave you to take up space.

I’ve found that the work of designing characters, crafting looks, or slipping into someone else's shoes for a while is a form of reclamation. Especially when you live in a society that likes its labels tidy. Especially when you never saw someone like you in the spotlight growing up. Let me show you what cultures colliding looks like.

Bike Messenger - Women Playing Hamlet - Little Colonel Playhouse

Third Culture Kids and the Power of Being Unplaceable

There’s a special magic in being from everywhere and nowhere.

Third culture kids (TCKs) often get described as "adaptable," which is a nice way of saying we’ve had to shapeshift just to survive. But that’s also a superpower. We learn how to code-switch, how to read rooms, and how to listen for what’s not being said. We are unexpected.

And in performance? That matters. That’s gold.

Because the best performers aren’t always the loudest. They’re the ones who notice the details others miss, the crack in a voice, the shift in posture, the heartbeat behind the line. If you grew up learning how to make yourself smaller or softer to fit in, performance can be your way of expanding.

Not shrinking.

For those who aren't third culture kids, your stories, your roots, and your traditions are no less special. In fact, I've often found myself longing for that kind of rootedness. To have a deep tie to a place, a community, a family history that doesn't feel splintered.

Oh, how I envy the people who are known in that sense.

They know where and who they came from and share a narrative with many others. That's a kind of beauty I deeply respect. And that is one thing I may never be able to bring to the table. But that’s okay; we are meant to be different with varying strengths.

What Happens When We’re Seen

In 2024, I worked on a film that told a story close to home, about young people navigating identity, mental health, and the pressures to perform (in all senses of the word). Ultimate Bias: Jpop vs Kpop, produced and directed by Silvano Mari. It was the kind of project where everyone showed up, not just with talent, but with heart.

Being on that set, I felt what it was like to be surrounded by the director Mari, cast, and crew who got it. The majority of them had lived experiences just like mine. They knew what it meant to feel out of place and used their art to carve out a space instead.

BTS of Ultimate Bias- Jpop vs Kpop, Silvanomari Film

We laughed a lot.

Ate together the foods not often craved by people around us.

We debated each other's perspectives.

We listened.

We translated.

We cried.

We saw each other.

And let me tell you: that kind of visibility heals something old.

For me, that project was healing as I experienced the loss of my performer self during COVID, and then on top of that, the loss of my entire self during pregnancy and postpartum. I lost touch with my entire creative side.

Surprise! Yup, I’m also a mother.

(Isn’t that just a great chance to reflect on self, struggles, and personal history while trying to learn how to pass it along to the next generation? More on that very real journey later.)

If You're Reading This

You don’t need to be an actor to perform identity. We all do it. Every day. In how we dress, speak, and navigate rooms. The question is: are you performing to disappear or to be seen?

BTS of Ultimate Bias- Jpop vs Kpop, Silvanomari Film

Belonging might not be a place. It might be a people or a person. A moment where you can just breathe. A project that feels like home. The smell of a home-cooked meal your family used to make. It might be your Pinterest board full of inspiration no one else understands but you. It might be that one song that gets you through the commute or that book/story that just feels like you.

And if you're like me, floating between countries, categories, and cultures, know this:

Your voice matters. Your mess matters. Your life matters. Your in-between is not a flaw.

It’s the stage.

And you belong right there on it.

P.S. To Little Joy Maki, who hid in the bedroom closet crying in despair, you will find the people who accept you, but you also had to learn to accept the truth of who God says you are.