Between two cultures

A few weeks ago, we celebrated Lunar New Year—a time filled with love, joy, and cherished moments with family and friends. Yet, beneath the festivities, an unresolved tension resurfaced—a quiet struggle with my Chinese heritage that lingers year after year.

Although I was born and raised in Australia, Cantonese was always the primary language I spoke at home with my parents. If asked, I’d say I’m fluent. I can converse comfortably, understand most of the dialogue in Cantonese TV shows, and people from Hong Kong even compliment my accent.

But the thing is… the moment I speak with someone who doesn’t understand any English phrases, particularly when discussing complex topics like medical terms, science concepts, or occupational matters, or the second I tune into Hong Kong news, or step foot in Hong Kong, I’m confronted with the truth: my fluency is far from what I thought it was. When I have no choice but to use Cantonese words, I come face to face with the limitations of my vocabulary. And that’s not even accounting for Chinese idioms—the intricate metaphors, cultural references, and nuances that native speakers weave seamlessly into conversation, leaving me fumbling for context.

This realisation carries a heavy sense of shame, especially when I recall spending two hours every week for 11 years at Cantonese school. Yet now, as an adult, I can barely read or write Chinese characters. More often than not, I rely on English words or Google Translate to bridge the gap, highlighting the disconnect between my identity and my language skills.

Waging an interNal War

That disconnect extends beyond just language. When people ask about my background, my automatic response is: “I’m Australian but my parents are from Hong Kong.” I rarely say, “I’m Chinese.” It’s not that I reject my heritage—I’m proud of my Asian roots, the traditions, and the values that have shaped me (admittedly, there are cultural norms that don’t always align with my personal values). But somewhere along the way, I’ve developed a hesitation, an almost subconscious reluctance to claim it outright.

Perhaps it traces back to my childhood. In the final years of primary school, I moved schools to attend an opportunity class. Aside from me, there were only seven Asian people in my school year. Although I didn’t face overt racism, I certainly interpreted moments of exclusion or hurtful comments as being linked to my ethnicity (even if they weren’t). As a child, it’s hard not to perceive and internalise physical differences as something negative. As an adult, I still grapple with how openly I discuss and celebrate my heritage. Maybe it’s the fear of being reduced to a stereotype. The rise in anti-Asian sentiment during the COVID-19 pandemic only heightened my awareness of how much I downplayed parts of my identity. I began retreating even further from my Chinese roots, feeling the need to emphasise my Australian identity above all else. Yet, the more I distanced myself, the heavier the burden of the guilt and shame.

This internal struggle continues to manifest in how I navigate spaces both at home and abroad. I feel torn, not fully belonging in either Australia or Hong Kong. In Australia, I don’t always feel completely ‘Australian.’ It’s impossible to ignore that I look different, and often, I find myself as the only Asian person in the room. Everywhere I go, there’s an unspoken sense that I am representing my Asian heritage. But in Hong Kong, I don’t feel entirely ‘Chinese’ either. I struggle with reading road signs and Chinese menus, the language is often peppered with jargon I can’t grasp, and I’m constantly self-conscious about mispronouncing even common words. There’s an undeniable gap that feels impossible to bridge.

Come Lunar New Year, the weight of this disconnection hits with full force. The customs, superstitions, and greetings—each year, I find myself scrambling to relearn them again, as if I’m always a step behind. A quiet sense of shame lingers, knowing that these traditions still haven’t become second nature to me. I fear that one day, I won’t be able to pass them on to my children, and they’ll grow up feeling as disconnected as I sometimes do.

Negotiating the Space Between

Coincidentally, a few years ago, I participated in a research study exploring how Chinese people in Australia identify with both cultures. I was presented with several options to choose from: Australian Chinese, Chinese Australian, Australian-Chinese, Chinese-Australian. I had never really considered the significance of these labels until then. Suddenly, I was forced to confront the weight of those words. Which part of me comes first? Does the order matter? And what about the hyphen? After much thought, I chose Chinese-Australian. In English, adjectives come first, and I do feel a stronger connection to my Australian identity. But the hyphen—acting as a bridge between my two cultures—felt necessary. It acknowledged that I am not just one or the other, but both.

Despite this ongoing tension, there have been moments when I’ve embraced my heritage more fully than I ever expected. One of the most poignant was during my wedding. At first, I resisted the idea of wearing a traditional Chinese dress for the tea ceremony, but over time, I came to understand its significance—not just for my family, but for myself. In the end, our tea ceremony became one of the most meaningful parts of the celebration. Our parents cried, I cried—it was a fleeting yet profound moment, heavy with emotion. Pouring tea for our parents and elders wasn’t just a formality; it was a gesture of respect and gratitude that grounded me in a way words never could. In that moment, I felt deeply connected to my Chinese roots.

This year also marked our first Lunar New Year as a married couple, and with it, a new tradition. For the first time, we not only received red envelopes (called hóngbāo 红包 or laih sih 利是), but we also had the honour of giving them to our younger, unmarried siblings.

Making Peace

I recently finished reading Permission to Come Home by Dr Jenny Wang, a book recommended by my brother-in-law. The book explores mental health through the lens of Asian cultural expectations, intergenerational trauma, and the tension between belonging and individuality. It offers a compassionate guide to self-acceptance and emotional well-being, particularly for those in the Asian diaspora. I truly believe this book is essential reading for anyone navigating these complexities or seeking to understand the Asian diaspora experience.

Towards the end of this masterpiece, the author reflects on her uncertainty about where home truly is as a first-generation Taiwanese woman living in the U.S. She concludes that home is not a place but a feeling—the place where you feel most yourself. This deeply resonated with me, as I, too, have wrestled with questions of belonging and identity, torn between cultures and expectations that often feel at odds with one another. Her words reminded me that home isn’t something to search for externally, but something to cultivate within.

With this sentiment in mind, I am now focused on creating an internal space where I can embrace all versions of myself, honour my evolving connection with my ethnic heritage, and allow my soul to find genuine peace—not marred by guilt, but grounded in self-acceptance.