I studied in nine different schools growing up.

Nine uniforms. Nine first day butterflies. Nine different ways to wonder: Who am I in this place? Nine goodbyes I didn’t always know how to say.

But this isn’t just a story about adaptability or grit—it’s a story about identity and finding belonging in unfamiliar places.

About what it means to start again. About the space between “Where are you from?” and “Where do you feel like you belong?”

I didn’t always feel like I belonged.

Instead, I learned how to fit in. I’d scan a new classroom and adjust—my tone, my posture, my expectations. I smiled, even when I wasn’t sure where I stood.

I became fluent in beginnings. But I also carried a quiet fear of the middle—the uncertain space where belonging is built, not assumed.

Learning the Language of Change

At one point, I felt embarrassed to say I had studied in nine schools.

It sounded scattered. Incomplete. Like I didn’t belong anywhere long enough to call it mine.

I worried people would see it as instability—or worse, failure to stay rooted. So I downplayed it. Smoothed over the edges. Said it lightly, with a laugh.

Now I see it differently.

Those transitions weren’t gaps in my story. They were growth points that shaped my identity, resilience, and leadership.

Each move taught me how to read the room, how to listen, and how to survive uncertainty. Later, those same skills helped me lead others through it.

The Middle We Don’t Talk About

We talk a lot about beginnings. We romanticize endings. But most of life—especially school life—is lived in the middle.

The in-between is that quiet stretch of time when the novelty fades but you’re not yet rooted. You know faces but not yet stories. You know how to walk the halls, but still wonder if you’re allowed to say, “I’m not okay yet.”

And that’s where I spent so much of my life—being new in places.

In that in-between space where I was constantly becoming, constantly adjusting, constantly waiting for confirmation that I was allowed to just be.

What I’d Tell My Younger Self

To the girl with the heavy backpack and the practiced smile, here’s what I’d say:

You don’t need to rush to prove yourself.

It’s okay to feel scared. You’re allowed to ask for help. You can take up space—even when you’re new, even when you’re unsure.

And one day, all of this—every ending and every uncertain start—will form the foundation for how you lead.

Not with ego. But with empathy.

The Quiet Art of Letting Go

When you grow up in transition, you become good at letting go. But that doesn’t mean you get numb to it.

I learned to pack fast. To make friends fast. To leave fast.

I also learned that people aren’t meant to be rushed through. And neither is belonging.

Now, I hold onto people more gently. I make more room for traditions and reflection. I stay in touch longer than I used to. And I hold space for others to not have it all together right away.

The Most Transient Communities of All

After university, it felt natural to work in international schools—places where movement is constant, identity is fluid, and the question “Where are you from?” often trails off into silence.

These communities are beautiful, but not always easy.

Students arrive mid-year. Staff start over every few years. Families leave before they’ve fully settled.

This time, though, I see it differently.

I notice the student who clings to their home language in the hallway.

The teacher who stays late—not because of work, but because they haven’t found friends outside of school.

The staff member who shows up strong, but carries a quiet loneliness they can’t name.

And I remember what it felt like to live in that in-between space.

Why I Lead—and Why I Write

I lead because I know what it’s like to feel unseen. I write because I want to create school communities that see better.

Communities where onboarding is about more than logistics—it’s about landing.

Where departures are honored with grace, not just paperwork.

Where “you belong here” isn’t a slogan, but a structure. A culture. A daily commitment.

Today’s schools shouldn’t just be learning communities. They must be belonging communities—where every voice feels seen, valued, and safe.

Places where people—students, teachers, leaders—can ask questions, show up messy, and become more than what they were when they arrived.

To Anyone Standing at a New Door

Maybe you just moved, your boxes are still unpacked, or you’re still wondering if you belong.

Here’s what I’ve learned after nine schools, dozens of classrooms, and countless new beginnings:

You don’t have to get it right on day one.

You don’t have to figure it out alone.

And most importantly, you’re allowed to begin again—

As many times as it takes.

This is the kind of community I want to help build.

And I’m honored to begin again, here—with you.