On an early morning flight in another country, I claimed the window seat. Alongside the standard anticipation that accompanies travel, I felt joy and fear and sadness. I don’t remember if I cried. What I do remember are the mountains, the wobbly takeoff within the rundown plane, and the small comfort of knowing that I didn’t forget anything. Everything we owned sat within the belly of the plane, packed neatly right into a dozen trunks and a couple of suitcases.
That was almost 4 years ago.
Most people would never guess now that I spent my childhood as a homeschooler in northern Iraq. Our family moved to the country to serve the Kurdish church once I was six; we moved back just before I turned 18. And after we returned, I did my best to erase every trace of those years from myself.
But their impact, after all, has remained. I still blank when someone asks where I’m from. I actually have struggled to search out an identity outside of “the girl who lived in Iraq.”
I actually have a tattoo of the mountains on my right forearm now, and a reference to Joshua 1:9 in Kurdish: “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; don’t be discouraged, for the Lord your God will likely be with you wherever you go.” The tattoo is a tether to the place that was each home and foreign, the place that I like and hate, fear and miss; the place that elicits nearly every possible emotion.
That first fall back within the United States, after I graduated from highschool, I moved to the Northwoods of Wisconsin for nine months to attend a spot 12 months program. It was one in every of the worst years of my life. I do know now that irrespective of where within the United States I’d been, this season would have been a dark one. I used to be anxious, depressed, and lost, overwhelmed by the differences between the place I’d left and the place I discovered myself now.
As a young girl who grew up in a Muslim world, I had never experienced independence. Instead of slowly working my way into freedom, though, I rebelled in as some ways as I could. I praise God now that my selections didn’t result in greater consequences.
In Iraq, dating wasn’t an option, and I had internalized many broken messages about myself and men. Instead of talking through those messages with a trusted advisor, I began dating someone who didn’t understand the bags I used to be carrying.
My parents had at all times guided my faith; I lived at home, I went to high school at home, and we were a close-knit family, often one another’s only Christian community. I never had the prospect to learn what my very own faith looked like. During my gap 12 months, I didn’t open my Bible or pray for months. I felt myself pulling away from my faith and my parents, deeper into confusion, grief, and insecurity.
Starting college in Indiana brought a fresh start. I explored my relationship with God through Bible classes and chapel and in my very own times of praying and journaling; I began calling home more.
But the culture shock wasn’t over. I wasn’t just getting used to living in America; I used to be getting used to being a part of “Gen Z,” with its fast-paced chaos of micro-trends, social media, and nostalgia. In a latest context, on the cusp of maturity, I used to be immediately overwhelmed by the memes and inside jokes familiar to my peers.
When we first moved back, I’d tried to disregard all of the references. How could I stay on target with God and schoolwork while also keeping track of fashion and slang and jokes?
But despite my efforts to disregard my feelings, I used to be terrified and embarrassed by my lack of know-how. I didn’t know every Disney Channel theme song (or any, for that matter). I didn’t have a pair of dirty Air Force 1s. (I had a pair of faded Nike tennis shoes I got on the secondhand market in Iraq.) I had never listened to Kanye or Taylor Swift. My idea of fun was exploring a mountainside that might need a pair unmarked landmines, not running to Starbucks to grab an overpriced drink. I didn’t understand what it meant to be “normal.”
It took effort and time to learn my peers’ culture: Years of study, years of mimicking everyone around me. Next 12 months, I’ll be a senior in college, but on occasion, I’m still haunted by imposter syndrome. I’m imagined to belong here, but I don’t—not fully, anyhow. I still like sitting on the ground greater than I like sitting at a desk. I do know what it’s prefer to live in a world where peace is a privilege, not an expectation. I miss pushing my way through crowded, sweaty markets, haggling with vendors in a distinct language. That tattoo will remain on my forearm.
These challenges aren’t unique to me. Missionary kids getting back from long stints overseas—“third-culture kids,” as American sociologist Ruth Useem described us—often have difficulty returning to our sending cultures. We suffer from the lack of well-known sights and smells, food and language—while, at the identical time, we’re expected to like being “back home.” Sometimes, we’re haunted by the poverty, suffering, and oppression we saw abroad. Some of us feel that our needs were neglected within the shadow of the mission. These are all familiar feelings to me.
A pair of 2009 studies from Mental Health, Religion & Culture showed that college-age missionary kids rating lower than their peers in each physical well-being and sociocultural adaptation. Surveyed missionary kids said one in every of their biggest struggles upon returning “home” was knowing tips on how to slot in and understanding the references their peers were making. They all expressed frustration that there hadn’t been more support.
I actually needed a support system once I returned to the United States. I used to be told I might grieve, but I needed greater than a warning. I needed someone to inform me what that grief could be for, exactly, and to reassure me that it was okay if my grief didn’t look similar to anyone else’s. I needed a reminder that I used to be not alone in my pain. I wish there had been someone—a friend, a mentor—who had understood where I used to be at and checked in on me, someone who could have shared their very own process, nevertheless messy and disorganized.
If I could speak to my 18-year-old self now, I’d tell her to take it slow; there’s no shame in learning to walk before you are trying to run. But I didn’t have an older version of myself searching for me. In order to adapt to the brand new, I just tried to eliminate the whole lot old. I attempted to throw away the shaping that God had done in me during my time overseas. I desired to be similar to everyone around me. It has taken me an extended time to just accept that Iraq has without end made me a bit of different.
Some a part of me will at all times be the girl who grew up in Iraq. That a part of my story, the leaving and the longing and the adjusting, has include suffering—which has also produced in me perseverance, character, and hope (Rom. 5:3–5). Obviously, that process has been removed from perfect. I’m stubborn and antagonistic to alter. But I actually have learned the grace of God; I’m learning to trust that he’ll use me in a way I may not see yet.
Today, I can say with certainty that I wouldn’t surrender my time overseas for anything. We only saw one person give his life to Christ during our years there, but my heart for the nations was without end modified by the Kurds. I carry with me the burden of lost hearts, the kids who won’t ever see outside of their city, the memories of probably the most authentic, frustrating, and hospitable people I’ve known. Instead of denying the difficult gifts of my past, I can say with sincerity, “Here I’m, Lord: Send me!”—with all my sadness and fear, my joy and anticipation.
Annie Meldrum is an intern at Christianity Today.
