Tag: America

  • Why America Still Executes People Long After Australia Stopped

    Why America Still Executes People Long After Australia Stopped


    Why Does America Still Have the Death Penalty? The Answer Changes by State.

    In Australia, I have stood near gallows as part of a prison tour. In Tennessee, I can drive about 40 minutes from home to a prison where executions are still carried out.

    That difference has stayed with me more than I expected.

    At Fremantle Prison, the gallows belonged to a history I was visiting. At Riverbend Maximum Security Institution, outside Nashville, the execution chamber belongs to the government of the state where I live.

    Same subject. A very different relationship to it.

    Why does America still have the death penalty? The short answer is that American law continues to permit it, some states continue to choose it, and support for it has remained politically significant. But that answer leaves out the part I find most revealing: Americans have made very different decisions about it within the same country.

    After more than eight years here, I have learned to be careful with any explanation that begins with Americans believe.

    Which Americans? Where? Those questions matter particularly when the subject is whether a government should be allowed to put somebody to death.


    When execution became something that happened elsewhere

    Nobody has been executed in Australia during my lifetime. Ronald Ryan, the last person executed there, was hanged in 1967.

    Truth newspaper front page dated February 4, 1967, reporting Ronald Ryan’s execution with the headline How Ryan Died.

    That did not mean capital punishment disappeared from Australian news. I remember the coverage of Kevin Barlow and Brian Chambers facing execution in Malaysia in 1986. Decades later, the executions of Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran in Indonesia brought the subject back into Australian homes.

    For me, though, there was a distinction. These were Australians facing execution overseas. At home, the places associated with hanging had become historical attractions.

    I visited Fremantle Prison on a night tour. Standing near its gallows was sobering. At the Old Melbourne Gaol, my attention was drawn more to Ned Kelly, but the history was there too. You could walk into those places, consider what had happened and then walk back out into a country that no longer did it.

    Australia reached that position gradually. Federal abolition came in 1973, abolition across all states was complete by 1985, and federal legislation in 2010 extended the prohibition to prevent states and territories from reintroducing capital punishment. The Australian Parliament’s account of the 2010 legislation explains that final step.

    Growing up with that legal settlement made it feel permanent. It did not mean every Australian agreed with it.

    I certainly do not think being Australian requires me to oppose the death penalty and I support retaining it for the most heinous murders where there is no doubt about who committed them. I believe Australia should still have that option too. What changed after moving here was how close the subject became. A punishment I had mostly encountered through history or foreign news became a decision made by my own state government.

    Michael looking towards the historic gallows inside Fremantle Prison in Western Australia.
    Fremantle Prison’s historic gallows room in Western Australia.

    America faced the question and took another path

    One thing surprised me when I began looking into this: the United States had a major reckoning over capital punishment around the same period Australia was abandoning it.

    In 1972, the Supreme Court’s decision in Furman v. Georgia invalidated the death penalty systems then before it. The problem centred on how death sentences were being imposed, including their arbitrary application. The justices did not produce a single majority explanation declaring that execution could never be constitutional.

    That distinction left room for states to rewrite their laws.

    In 1976, Gregg v. Georgia and related decisions upheld revised systems. The Court accepted procedures that guided sentencing decisions, including separate consideration of guilt and punishment. America’s modern death penalty developed through that response. The Federal Judicial Center’s history of capital juries explains the change.

    So it would be misleading to say America simply never got around to having the argument. It had the argument in court, then legislatures made choices about what came next.

    Some chose to preserve capital punishment within the new legal boundaries. Over time, others abolished it. For me, that changes the question. Shared history and a shared language do not guarantee that countries will reach the same settlement about punishment. The institutions making the decisions matter, as do the people willing to defend or challenge those decisions.


    America has several answers at once

    As of October 2026, 23 states have abolished the death penalty and 27 retain it. The District of Columbia has abolished it, while the federal government and US military retain separate capital punishment systems. The Death Penalty Information Center’s state guide sets out those distinctions.

    But even a map divided into states with and without capital punishment cannot tell the whole story.

    Michigan’s abolition of the death penalty for ordinary crimes took effect in 1847. Australia was still a collection of colonies. The American Civil War had not begun. An American state had already made a decision that Australia would take well over a century to complete nationally.

    Kansas gives us a different answer. It retains the death penalty, yet its last executions were in 1965. That is before Australia’s last execution.

    Then there is Tennessee, where I live, which has continued carrying out executions in the modern era.

    Chicago Tribune front page dated March 10, 2011, announcing Illinois’s death penalty ban, with Governor Pat Quinn holding the signed law.

    These examples reveal three questions that are often bundled together. Does the law allow a death sentence? Do courts impose one? Does the state actually carry it out?

    The answers need not match. A state can keep capital punishment in its law while going decades without an execution. A temporary pause can stop executions without abolishing the punishment. A state that abolishes it still sits within a country whose federal system retains it.

    That is why I struggle with the idea of the death penalty as a single American cultural trait. An American in Michigan and an American in Tennessee can live under different state rules governing the most severe punishment available. Calling both positions American is accurate. Trying to turn them into one national opinion is where things go wrong.


    Public support helps explain why it survived

    The law is only part of the answer. There also has to be enough support to keep a punishment politically viable.

    Gallup’s long running survey asks whether people favour the death penalty for a person convicted of murder. In March 1972, 50 percent said yes. In 1994, support reached 80 percent. By October 2025, it had fallen to 52 percent.

    That is a substantial change. It also shows why describing capital punishment as something imposed against a consistently hostile public would miss an important part of its history.

    For years, the idea had strong support. More recently, that support has become much narrower. Neither finding tells us what every state wants, or what a jury would decide in a particular case.

    The wording matters too. Supporting a punishment for murder in a survey is a different decision from choosing it for an actual defendant after hearing evidence about both the crime and the person who committed it.

    I know my own support is conditional. The seriousness of the crime and certainty about guilt matter enormously to me. A national percentage cannot capture all of that. It also cannot tell us whether people trust the procedures used to carry out a sentence. That became a very immediate question here in Tennessee.


    When the question arrived on Nashville television

    On September 30, 2026, Tennessee attempted to execute Christa Pike at Riverbend. She had been sentenced to death for the 1995 torture and murder of 19 year old Colleen Slemmer.

    Knoxville News-Sentinel banner showing the January 1995 headline 3 teens charged in slaying and four portraits.
    Newspaper coverage of Colleen Slemmer’s murder, January 1995.

    I watched the local television coverage. Pike survived the administration of two doses of pentobarbital and was taken to hospital. Governor Bill Lee subsequently paused the remaining execution scheduled for 2026 and ordered an independent review. The reported account of the failed execution describes what witnesses observed. The Department of Correction’s statement said it had followed the established protocol.

    The contrast between those two things deserves scrutiny. A procedure can be followed and still fail to achieve its intended outcome.

    My support for capital punishment includes cases such as Pike’s. It also comes with an expectation that the state can carry out the sentence lawfully and competently. When it cannot, asking what went wrong is a responsibility that supporters should take seriously too.

    Two portraits of Colleen Slemmer displayed on easels behind a wooden podium with news microphones.

    Colleen Slemmer must remain part of that discussion. She was 19 when she was murdered. Attention to the execution procedure should never reduce her to a detail in the story of the person convicted of killing her.

    I explored what happened at Riverbend, and the questions it raises for Tennessee, in this episode of From Down Under to Down South.


    Living here gives the question a different weight

    The first time I went out towards Riverbend, I was interested in the old Tennessee State Prison nearby. Parts of The Green Mile were filmed there, and I wanted to see the place.

    Tennessee State Prison

    Riverbend looked very different. I remember grassy hills, earthworks and a quietness that seemed at odds with what happened inside. There was also a warning not to pick up hitchhikers. Outside a maximum security prison, that strikes me as fairly sound advice.

    I have been out that way several times. Those visits did not give me access to what happens behind the walls. They did make the prison a real place in my own landscape.

    Someone once asked in a comment how I could live somewhere that still had the death penalty. It had never been a factor in my decision to move here. I understood the question more clearly once I considered the distance between an Australian museum visit and a Tennessee news bulletin.

    I have written before about loving a new country without loving the old one less. Living between them also means looking carefully at decisions that familiarity might otherwise allow you to overlook.

    Sometimes that produces a question about a phrase or a custom. Sometimes it means considering the powers we give a government, and what we expect when it uses them.

    I came up against a different version of that question while writing about online safety and government power. Agreement with an aim does not settle every question about the means.

    With capital punishment, the consequences make those questions particularly demanding.

    Why does America still have the death penalty? Because its constitutional framework permits it, because some governments continue to choose it, and because enough people continue to support it. Other Americans have spent generations choosing differently.

    Living in Tennessee has made me pay closer attention to which choice my state makes, how it carries it out and who has to live with the consequences. At Fremantle, I could leave those questions in the past when the tour ended. Here, they can be waiting for me when I turn on the evening news.


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  • Can You Love Your New Country Without Loving Your Old One Less?

    Can You Love Your New Country Without Loving Your Old One Less?

    AUSTRALIAN EYES ON AMERICA


    There is a strange assumption that sometimes follows you when you move to another country.

    At some point, apparently, you are supposed to choose.

    If you say too many nice things about the country you left, someone wonders why you left it.

    If you say too many nice things about the country you moved to, someone wonders whether you’ve forgotten where you came from.

    I’ve come across versions of both.

    After eight years living in the United States, I’ve become very comfortable saying that I love America.

    I chose to live here. I became an American citizen. I’m raising my children here. I’ve built a life here. There are things about American culture that I’ve genuinely come to admire, and many of them have become the subjects of the videos and articles I make.

    None of that has made me less Australian.

    That’s the part I think people sometimes misunderstand. Loving one country doesn’t mean you have to love the other one less.


    I Didn’t Exchange Australia for America

    When you immigrate, there is a tendency for people to think about the move as a replacement.

    Old country out. New country in.

    But that isn’t how it has felt to me.

    Australia is still there in so much of who I am.

    It’s in my accent, despite whatever America has been doing to it lately. My sense of humour, the food I occasionally find myself desperately searching for. The expressions that come out of my mouth without me even noticing them.

    The experiences that shaped me long before I ever imagined living in Tennessee.

    America didn’t erase any of that.

    It added to it. I think that distinction matters.

    Canberra Australia and Lake Burley Griffin balloon festival
    Australia is still part of who I am, even after eight years of building a life in America

    Psychologists actually have language for this.

    In research on immigration, assimilation generally means adopting the new culture while gradually letting go of your attachment to the culture you came from.

    Integration is different. It means becoming part of your new culture while still maintaining your connection to the old one.

    Research from the American Psychological Association suggests the two identities don’t have to compete. Immigrants can adapt to life in a new country while maintaining a strong connection to their heritage, and research has found benefits to being able to maintain both.

    In other words, the science doesn’t require me to hand in my Vegemite before I’m allowed to enjoy biscuits and gravy. Which is quietly reassuring.


    Somewhere Along the Way, America Became Home Too

    This is where things become more complicated than simply saying, “I’m an Australian who lives in America.”

    Because America isn’t just where I live anymore.

    It’s home.

    That’s a surprisingly significant word for an immigrant.

    Home used to have a very obvious answer. Australia was home because Australia was where I came from.

    Then you spend years somewhere else. You work there. Make friends there. Raise your kids there.

    You stop having to think about where things are or how things work. The supermarket becomes your supermarket. The roads become familiar. Places that once felt foreign become completely ordinary.

    Eventually you return from a trip, walk through your own front door and think:

    It’s good to be home.

    Except you’re not in the country you once meant when you used that word.

    You’re in the other one.

    That has been one of the strangest changes for me.

    I don’t feel 50 percent Australian and 50 percent American.

    Identity isn’t a pie chart.

    I feel Australian.

    I also feel American. Those statements stopped contradicting each other a long time ago.


    Becoming American Didn’t Feel Like Rejecting Australia

    I remember standing in the courthouse on the day I became an American citizen.

    There were about 40 of us, from all over the world, standing together and taking the Oath of Allegiance to the United States.

    It was a proud moment for me.

    But there was one part of the oath that felt strange.

    I had to declare that I “absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity” to any foreign state of which I had previously been a citizen.

    In my case, Australia.

    I understood what the oath meant. I was choosing to become an American citizen and accepting the responsibilities that came with that.

    But standing there saying those words, I didn’t feel as though I was renouncing Australia.

    I certainly didn’t feel any less Australian when I walked out of the courthouse than I had when I walked in.

    Michael Saville holding his U.S. citizenship certificate beside an American flag after becoming a U.S. citizen.
    Becoming an American citizen didn’t make me feel any less Australian. It simply gave me another country to call home.

    If anything, becoming an American citizen felt like formal recognition of something that had already happened.

    America had become part of my life.

    I had a stake in this country.

    Its future mattered to me because my future was here too.

    So was my family’s.

    None of that required Australia to become less important.

    There is an interesting contradiction in the language of citizenship itself. For much of history, dual nationality was viewed with suspicion because governments worried about divided loyalties. Today, dual citizenship is far more widely accepted around the world, and both Australia and the United States allow people to hold more than one nationality.

    So I walked into that courthouse as an Australian.

    I walked out as an American.

    But I also walked out as an Australian.

    Maybe that’s the point. Becoming one didn’t require me to stop being the other.


    Sometimes Other People Want the Choice More Than You Do

    One of the interesting things about living between countries is how often identity gets defined from the outside.

    People like neat categories.

    Australian.

    American.

    Immigrant.

    Expat.

    Pick one.

    But people don’t necessarily work that way.

    Research into immigrant belonging suggests that the way newcomers are treated by the society around them can have a significant effect on whether they feel accepted as part of their new country. Research summarized by the Migration Policy Institute has found that public attitudes and political rhetoric can influence an immigrant’s sense of national belonging.

    That makes sense to me.

    Belonging isn’t only about deciding that a country is yours.

    Sometimes it is also about feeling that the country has decided you are one of its people.

    I’ve noticed something interesting when Americans meet me.

    Obviously, the accent usually gives me away pretty quickly. People ask where I’m from, how long I’ve been here and, occasionally, something involving kangaroos.

    But when they learn that I’m also an American citizen, something subtly changes.

    It’s difficult to describe because nobody announces it.

    The conversation just feels slightly different.

    There’s a sense of, Oh, you’re one of us.

    Maybe I’m imagining some of it. Human interactions aren’t exactly easy things to measure while you’re standing in the supermarket talking to a stranger.

    But I’ve noticed it enough times to believe there’s something there.

    My Australian accent still makes me interestingly foreign.

    My American citizenship seems to make me belong.

    The funny thing is, I don’t need one of those things to cancel out the other. I can be the Australian in the conversation and still be one of the Americans in the room.


    Loving America Doesn’t Require Pretending It’s Perfect

    There is another part of this that I think is important.

    Loving your adopted country doesn’t mean pretending everything about it is sunshine, roses and butterflies.

    I don’t believe that about America.

    I didn’t believe it about Australia either.

    No country gets everything right.

    You can love a country and still criticize it.

    Admire another country without declaring it superior in every possible way.

    You can even prefer different things about different places.

    There are things Australia does that I wish America would copy tomorrow. There are things about American life that I now genuinely prefer.

    That isn’t betrayal.

    It’s perspective.

    In fact, one of the unexpected gifts of immigration is that you begin seeing both countries differently.

    Distance makes you notice things about the country you left that you once took for granted.

    Living somewhere new makes you question things you once assumed were universal.

    Then you go back to the country you came from and discover that you’re looking at that differently too.

    I’ve experienced that with Australia.

    Things that were completely unremarkable to me when I lived there suddenly stand out. Some make me appreciate Australia more. Others make me wonder how I never noticed them before.

    You haven’t stopped being an insider.

    But you’re not entirely looking at it through an insider’s eyes anymore either.

    Somehow, you become both.

    It’s occasionally confusing.

    But it’s also fascinating.


    Maybe Belonging Doesn’t Have to Be Exclusive

    In some ways, none of this should be particularly unusual in America.

    Americans have been combining identities for generations.

    Irish American. Italian American. Mexican American. German American.

    For some people, the connection to the first country goes back generations. They may never have lived there, or perhaps never even visited, but their heritage can still be an important part of how they understand who they are.

    My version is obviously a little different.

    Australia isn’t where my ancestors came from several generations ago.

    It’s where I came from.

    It’s where I grew up and spent most of my life before moving to the United States.

    But maybe the principle isn’t so different.

    Becoming American doesn’t require everything that came before it to disappear.

    Researchers studying bicultural identity have found that people can identify strongly with both their heritage culture and their national culture. Research also suggests that seeing those identities as compatible, rather than in conflict with each other, can help people feel more connected to the society around them.

    That feels much closer to my experience than the idea that I must gradually become less Australian in order to become more American. America didn’t replace Australia.

    Family of four smiling together after building a life in the United States.
    Our family has built its life in America, but Australia remains part of our story.

    It joined it.


    I Still Know Where I Came From

    There are moments when the distance from Australia hits harder than others.

    One of the biggest for me came during the Black Summer bushfires of 2019 and 2020.

    I was thousands of miles away in America while fires burned up and down the New South Wales coast and surrounded the area where I grew up.

    Glued to Australian news reports. I listened to Australian radio from America trying to find out what was happening.

    These weren’t just names of towns appearing on a news report.

    I knew these places.

    Knew the roads.

    I knew the countryside.

    I was watching places I knew like the back of my hand burn. At one point, I watched as fire roared across paddocks towards a house I had once lived in and came frighteningly close to engulfing it.

    NSW rural fire services fight a large fire in Australia
    During the Black Summer bushfires, I watched from America as fires tore through parts of New South Wales I knew intimately.

    Being in America didn’t make any of that feel distant.

    If anything, being unable to physically be there made the distance feel enormous. The COVID years brought a different version of the same feeling. Australia suddenly seemed much further away than the number of miles between us.

    Those experiences reminded me that moving overseas doesn’t sever your connection to the place you came from.

    But neither does missing Australia mean I’m secretly waiting to leave America.

    That’s the false choice.

    I can miss one place while being happy in another.

    Be proud of where I came from while being grateful for where I ended up.

    Care about what happens to Australia and care deeply about what happens to America.

    I can watch Australia play sport and know exactly which side I’m supporting.

    Okay, some loyalties apparently do have limits.

    But for everything else, I’ve stopped feeling any need to choose.

    I’ve lived in America long enough now to understand that moving countries didn’t divide my identity.

    It expanded it.

    Australia gave me the foundations of who I am.

    America has shaped who I’ve become since.

    One doesn’t diminish the other.

    So can you love your new country without loving your old one less?

    After eight years of trying it, I think the answer is pretty simple.

    Yes. You just end up with more than one place in the world that feels like yours.


    Enjoyed this article?

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    Sources and further reading

    The American Psychological Association’s work on immigration and acculturation explains the distinction between assimilation and integration, including the ability to participate in a new culture while maintaining attachment to one’s heritage culture.

    The APA’s more recent review of immigration research discusses evidence supporting bicultural integration and the psychological and sociocultural benefits associated with maintaining connections to both heritage and destination cultures.

    The Migration Policy Institute has examined both dual citizenship and immigrant belonging, including the historical shift away from treating dual nationality as inherently incompatible with integration. Research published in Cultural Diversity and Ethnic Minority Psychology has also examined dual identity among immigrants and the relationship between identification with both heritage and national cultures, belonging and psychological outcomes.

  • The Moment I Realised My Children Belong in America

    The Moment I Realised My Children Belong in America

    One of the hardest parts of raising children overseas is realizing they may end up belonging somewhere different from you.

    Not because they’ve rejected where you came from.

    Not because they’ve forgotten their roots.

    But because their life happened somewhere else.

    After eight years in America, I’ve started to realize that’s exactly what’s happened with my daughters.

    And strangely enough, it happened without me noticing.


    What Raising Children Overseas Taught Me

    When we moved from Australia to America, I expected my life to change.

    I expected new roads.

    New customs.

    New ways of doing things.

    I expected to spend years learning the differences between the two countries.

    What I didn’t fully understand was that moving countries wouldn’t just change me.

    It would shape my children’s entire childhood.

    The friendships they would form.

    The confidence they would develop.

    The place they would eventually call home.

    Recently, that reality hit me harder than it ever has before.

    Daytona gave me more than a week of dance competitions. It gave me time to notice who my daughters are becoming.

    The Week That Made Me Notice

    We’d just come back from Daytona Beach.

    Like most dance trips, it was a blur of hotel rooms, elevators, airports, restaurants, competition schedules and far too little sleep.

    Parents were surviving on caffeine.

    Kids were surviving on excitement.

    Somewhere in the middle of all that, I found myself paying attention to my daughters in a different way.

    Not just watching them.

    Actually noticing them.

    The way they spoke to people.

    How they handled themselves.

    The way they moved through unfamiliar situations.

    And I kept finding myself thinking the same thing.

    I was never like that at their age.


    The Kid Behind The Couch

    When I was young, I was painfully shy.

    Visitors would come to our house and I’d disappear.

    Sometimes behind the couch.

    Sometimes into my bedroom.

    Anywhere that allowed me to avoid being noticed.

    Adults intimidated me.

    Groups overwhelmed me.

    Confidence wasn’t something that came naturally.

    It wasn’t until much later in life that I learned how to navigate those situations comfortably.

    Which is probably why my daughters stand out so much to me now.

    Because neither of them are that child.



    Watching Them Move Through The World

    Brianna will happily talk to almost anyone.

    She orders her own food.

    Asks questions.

    Investigates things she probably shouldn’t.

    She approaches the world as if it’s open until someone proves otherwise.

    Georgia is different.

    She’s quieter.

    More thoughtful.

    More sensitive.

    But she has her own confidence.

    She’ll walk up to a flight attendant and ask for help.

    Navigate an airport.

    Handle situations on her own.

    She’s not loud.

    She’s not pushy.

    Just simply capable.

    And that’s what struck me.

    Both of them are.

    In completely different ways.


    Watching them handle airports and travel on their own still catches me off guard.


    America Shaped Them Too

    When people move overseas, they expect the new country to shape them.

    You learn different customs.

    Different expressions.

    Different social rules.

    You learn that biscuits aren’t biscuits.

    That football sometimes involves very little foot.

    You learn that Americans consider a three-hour drive “close.”

    But eventually I realized something else.

    America wasn’t only shaping me.

    It was shaping my daughters too.


    Georgia Carries Two Homes

    Georgia was born in Australia.

    She still feels connected to that part of her story.

    She knows where she was born.

    Knows where her parents came from.

    She still spells “Mum” correctly, which I consider one of my greatest parenting achievements.

    But she has grown up here.

    Her school is here.

    Her friends are here.

    Dance life is here.

    And recently she started talking about her dream college.

    USC.

    The University of South Carolina.

    She’s only ten years old, so there is every chance she’ll change her mind another twenty times.

    But that’s not really the point.

    When she imagines her future, she imagines it here.


    Brianna Doesn’t Have The Same Question

    Brianna was born in America.

    And in many ways, America simply feels like home.

    Recently we watched Australia versus the USA on TV at the 2026 World Cup.

    When the Australian anthem played, Georgia and I stood up and sang along, hand over our hearts.

    When the American anthem played we did too, but Brianna absolutely lit up.

    She sang every word.

    Then started chanting “USA! USA!”

    Meanwhile I stood there having the complicated emotional experience of an Australian father watching his daughter enthusiastically support the opposition.

    That was probably the moment I should have figured it out.


    There has never been much doubt about where Brianna feels at home.

    Going Back Changed Something

    Last year we took the girls back to Australia.

    For Georgia especially, I think that trip changed something.

    She saw old friends.

    Old places.

    Parts of her earlier life.

    But she also discovered something many adults discover when they move away.

    Life doesn’t pause while you’re gone.

    People move on.

    Friendships evolve.

    Places change.

    And sometimes you realize the version of home you carried in your head no longer exists exactly the way you remember it.

    I think that trip made America feel even more like home for her.

    Not because Australia stopped mattering.

    But because she realized where her actual life was happening.



    The Quiet Realization

    As much as Nikki’s parents probably won’t enjoy reading this, I don’t think either of my daughters will move back to Australia.

    That feels strange to say out loud.

    It’s not sadness exactly.

    But it’s not nothing either.

    It’s pride mixed with a little grief.

    Because if you’re an immigrant parent, you want your children to belong.

    And then one day you realize they do.

    Just not necessarily in the place you expected.


    Pride and grief can sometimes exist in the same moment.

    We Didn’t Raise Copies Of Ourselves

    Nikki and I have always tried to let the girls become themselves.

    Not smaller versions of us.

    Not copies of our childhood.

    Their own people.

    Georgia’s dance dreams belong to her.

    Brianna’s interests belong to her.

    Our job isn’t to own those things.

    Our job is to support them.

    Guide them.

    Protect them.

    And occasionally pay ridiculous amounts of money for costumes covered in rhinestones.


    What America Gave Them

    America isn’t perfect.

    No country is.

    But one thing I’ve noticed is that American culture often encourages children to participate.

    To ask questions.

    Speak up.

    To feel like they belong in the room.

    And I think my daughters have absorbed some of that.

    Georgia absorbed it quietly.

    Brianna absorbed it like a bald eagle wearing glitter shoes.

    But they both absorbed it.

    And honestly, I’m grateful for that.



    Home Is More Complicated Than It Used To Be

    One daughter carries Australia within her identity.

    The other is deeply, proudly American.

    So how exactly am I supposed to turn that into a competition?

    I can’t.

    And I don’t want to.

    Australia shaped me.

    America shaped them.

    Both countries matter because both countries shaped the people I love most.


    Recommended Reading


    Home Isn’t Always One Place

    The biggest thing I’ve learned since moving overseas is that home isn’t always a country.

    Sometimes it’s a couch you used to hide behind.

    Sometimes it’s an airport gate.

    Maybe a dance studio.

    Or your daughter confidently ordering her own meal.

    Sometimes it’s hearing an anthem that isn’t yours somehow become part of your family story.

    And sometimes it’s standing there watching your children move through the world with a confidence you never had at their age.

    That’s what happened to me in Daytona.

    Not in one dramatic moment.

    Not during some life-changing conversation.

    Just in a hundred little moments.

    Georgia asking questions.

    Brianna talking to strangers.

    Both of them moving through the world with ease.

    And me finally realizing something I probably should have understood years ago.

    They’re not growing up overseas.

    They’re growing up at home.


    Some Great Reading About Home & Identity