Hi, I'm Jeanette Brown, a relationship coach and mindfulness educator in my early 60s. I'm Australian by birth, but I've spent the last decade living "between": Sydney as home base, long stretches in Singapore, and frequent months in Bangkok and Vietnam running small retreats and visiting family. My WhatsApp is a literal collage of time zones — my sentences slip from clean Australian English to a bit of Singlish ("can, can") with a wai in Thailand and a soft "da" in Saigon. That in-between is where I feel most at home. My borderland story is practical and tender. In Singapore, mornings start with kopi at a hawker centre where five languages dance at one table. Bangkok teaches me kreng jai — thoughtful restraint — so I slow my speech and leave more air in conversations; Vietnam reminds me how to keep mat mui — face — during conflict, repairing early so respect stays intact. I've learned to choose neighborhoods by sidewalks and wet markets, not Instagram views; to arrive by daylight; to greet elders first; to let humor carry what words can't. Moving among Changi, Suvarnabhumi, and Tan Son Nhat rewired my default settings: I listen longer, translate more generously, and measure "fairness" before decisions so no one loses dignity. That's the heart of my coaching with binational couples and APAC teams now — practical rituals for meeting in the middle when cultures rub. I'd be honored to contribute to your article! Hope you'll find my insights useful! Cheers, Jeanette Brown Founder, jeanettebrown.net
I grew up in post-Soviet Ukraine, right after the collapse of the USSR, in a family that had been very influential during the communist era. Because of that, for the first several years of my life, I wasn't quite sure what my nationality was, or even what culture I belonged to. My family tried to preserve the "Soviet way" in everything—from politics to worldview to everyday cultural habits—so even as the country around us was falling apart, our home felt like a little bubble of continuity. Those early years were a kind of borderland in themselves. I existed between the remnants of a collapsing Soviet identity and the emerging Ukrainian state, between my family's old influence and the chaos outside, between what I was taught at home and what I saw happening in society. It shaped me in ways I only fully recognized later: a constant negotiation between multiple worlds, languages, and perspectives, and a sense that belonging isn't always tied to a single passport or culture.
As a trauma therapist, I see how living "in between" creates its own form of attachment wounding that rarely gets discussed. Clients who grew up straddling cultural identities often describe feeling like they never fully belonged anywhere - too American for their immigrant families, too "other" for their American peers. What's fascinating is how this borderland existence shows up in the nervous system. I work with second-generation immigrants who describe constant hypervigilance about code-switching correctly - which language to use, which cultural self to present. Their bodies hold the stress of perpetual translation, not just of words but of entire identity systems. Through EMDR and somatic work, I've noticed these clients often carry what I call "belonging trauma" - the repeated experience of not fitting neatly into any single cultural box. One client described it as "living in permanent cultural jet lag," where your internal sense of home never quite matches your external environment. The healing happens when we help their nervous systems recognize that being "in between" isn't a deficit to fix, but a unique strength that allows them to bridge worlds. Their borderland experience often makes them incredibly skilled at reading rooms, adapting to different social contexts, and holding multiple perspectives simultaneously.
Growing up in India and then moving to the US for medical training created this constant sense of living between worlds that I still carry today. During my residency at UMass and fellowship at Einstein, I was navigating American medical culture while maintaining my Indian identity - switching between languages with family calls and English medical terminology, celebrating Diwali while studying for board exams. What really strikes me now after 25+ years in Houston is how this "borderland" experience shaped my approach to patient care at GastroDoxs. I see patients from dozens of cultural backgrounds - Mexican families who prefer Spanish explanations, Indian patients who understand Ayurvedic concepts, Middle Eastern families with specific dietary restrictions. That feeling of being "in between" makes me naturally adapt my communication style. The most concrete example is how I explain conditions like IBS or GERD. For my Indian patients, I might reference how certain spices affect digestion, while for my Mexican patients, I discuss how traditional foods can be modified rather than eliminated. This cultural code-switching happens dozens of times daily across our four locations serving such a diverse Houston population. Living in this medical borderland between cultures has actually become our practice's strength. When you've felt like an outsider yourself, you recognize that look in a patient's eyes when they're trying to steer unfamiliar medical territory while holding onto their cultural identity.
Growing up in Shenzhen always felt like living in a borderland. The city is right next to Hong Kong, so you cross between two systems, two currencies, even two ways of thinking almost daily. I remember friends who'd buy groceries in one city but study in the other, and the small choices added up to a mixed identity. For me, building SourcingXpro was shaped by that experience—I knew how to bridge cultures and make business feel smoother for international buyers. Honestly, it never felt like belonging to just one place, more like holding both. That "in between" space ended up being my biggest advantage.
I used to live in Niagara Falls, Canada, right across the Rainbow Bridge to the New York sister city. While we both spoke English, the Americans spoke with a Rust Belt twang compared to our Canadian raising, which is remarkable considering how close we are to each other. The '90s were before the advent of Amazon shopping, and we used to head over for groceries, clothing, and discount hockey games, since Sabres tickets were a bargain compared to Toronto. While my parents got annoyed by the traffic, I was always mystified that I was crossing an international boundary, taking notice of the centerline with the two national flags. After returning with my family, after many years, I didn't have time to marvel at the same bridge that I used to as a kid, as there was no one else in front of us. I didn't realize that the nostalgia would hit so hard.
Moving from Tehran to Charlotte in 2000 created this constant cultural translation that still shapes how I run Rugsource today. I'm literally selling pieces of my heritage to American customers who often have no context for the centuries of craftsmanship they're buying. The borderland feeling hits hardest when I'm explaining rug origins to customers. When someone asks about a Caucasian rug, I'm bridging their understanding between the geographic Caucasus region (Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan) and what they think "Caucasian" means. I switch between talking about ancient tribal weaving techniques and modern home decor needs within the same conversation. At the gym doing powerlifting, I'm the Iranian mom who can deadlift more than most guys. My kids steer between Persian traditions at home and American school culture. Even my business reflects this duality - I'm importing handmade pieces from regions like Balochistan where nomadic tribes still use camel hair, then selling them online to customers decorating suburban living rooms. The most concrete example is pricing conversations. American customers see a $3,000 hand-knotted Persian rug as expensive furniture. I see months of a family's work using techniques passed down for generations. That gap between worldviews is something I steer dozens of times daily.