There’s a sentence I’ve heard a lot since moving to the United States:
“We should do this again.”
On the surface, it means exactly what it sounds like.
And yet… I don’t take it at face value anymore.
Not because I think people are insincere.
But because I’ve learned that warmth and investment aren’t always the same thing.
And that’s taken me a while to understand.
When you first move overseas, you take things at face value. You don’t yet understand the rhythm. You don’t know what’s invitation, what’s politeness, and what’s simply social atmosphere.
Even now, I sometimes catch myself wondering if I’ve misread something—whether I’ve misunderstood cultural nuance, or whether I’m just navigating ordinary human dynamics that exist anywhere.
Living overseas has a way of making you replay moments. You notice tone. Follow-through. The space between words and action.
And this week, a few moments lined up in a way that made me realise something about how I’ve changed.
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The Hotel Months
When we first moved to America, we lived in a hotel room for a few weeks.
Our furniture was somewhere on a container ship between Canberra and Nashville. It sounds adventurous when you say it quickly. In reality, it’s just inconvenient.
We were buying beds and couches online, trying to time deliveries with an arrival date we couldn’t fully control. Everything felt temporary.
We ate out every night—not as a treat, but because we didn’t own plates.
And I remember sitting there one night—takeaway containers on the desk, Georgia tired, Nikki exhausted—and thinking:
Surely someone will reach out.
Not out of entitlement. But because in my mind, we weren’t strangers. We’d known people here for years. Shared meals. Conversations. Enough that they factored into our decision to choose Nashville.
I found myself checking my phone—not obsessively, just… expectantly.
Week one passed.
Week two.
Nothing.
No dinner invitation.
No “How are you settling?”
No “You must be sick of hotel food—come over.”
It wasn’t dramatic. There wasn’t a falling out. It was just… silence.
One Sunday afternoon stands out. Sundays feel different when you’re displaced. Back in Australia, they often meant something—family lunches, barbecues, someone dropping by unannounced.
Here, it was just another quiet afternoon in a hotel room.
I remember wondering if I should reach out first. But something in me didn’t want to manufacture it. In my mind, if something is solid, it doesn’t need prompting.
That was probably naïve. But it was honest.
What made it uncomfortable wasn’t the silence itself. It was realising I’d built part of our confidence about moving on something that wasn’t as firm as I believed.
Not anger—just exposure.
Back in Australia, when we left, people showed up. Farewell dinners. Friends helping pack. Someone bringing food. Someone taking Georgia out for the afternoon so we could get things done.
There’s an instinct—at least in my experience—that when someone is in transition, you move toward it.
I assumed that would translate.
It didn’t.
And that doesn’t make anyone wrong.
It just meant I’d mistaken familiarity for obligation… and history for depth.
The Industry Layer
After I started working here, I found myself at a few social gatherings connected to the music industry.
At first, I found it fascinating. But then I began noticing something subtle.
When people asked what I did and I said I was in banking and finance… the energy shifted.
Still polite. Still friendly.
But curiosity dropped.
I wasn’t in the industry. I couldn’t open doors.
It wasn’t dramatic—just a slight shift in attention. A pivot toward someone else.
And I found myself asking: is this unique to Nashville, or just more visible here?
Because every city has its orbit. In Canberra, it’s politics. In Sydney, it’s finance.
But when you’re outside the orbit, you feel it.
And I realised something about myself in those rooms—I don’t thrive in environments where relationships are closely tied to usefulness.
I come from a culture where connection is built through shared time, shared inconvenience, shared history.
That doesn’t make one better than the other.
But you feel the difference.
The Dance Hallway
I noticed a similar rhythm again this week at Georgia’s dance studio.
We’ve been there six years. Same hallway and competitions. Same parents.
And sometimes I walk in, and a small group of parents are standing there… and they look straight through me.
Not aggressively. Just neutrally.
For a moment, it feels personal.
Then I catch myself and ask: is this cultural nuance, or just adult social structure?
Australia has cliques too. But I think back to netball courts, footy clubs, dance studios I grew up in. If you stood beside the same people for six years, chances are you’d end up at each other’s houses at some point.
Here, repetition doesn’t always dissolve boundaries.
Dance friends can remain dance friends.
And that’s not wrong. It’s just different.
As a dad, I notice it—not because I need inclusion, but because kids learn what belonging looks like by watching adults.
And sometimes I wonder—does Georgia feel this differently? Or is this just normal to her?
Then I remind myself—she’s confident, she’s happy, she has strong friendships.
So maybe what I’m feeling is more about my own cultural translation than her reality.
That’s humbling.
The Steady Southerners
And then there’s another kind of warmth I’ve experienced here.
The quieter kind.
When my mum passed away, a couple from East Tennessee didn’t make speeches. They brought roses for us to plant in the garden.
Something living. Something ongoing.
They check in and ask about the girls. They follow through.
Recently, when I asked if he’d be a referee for me, there was no hesitation.
But what stands out isn’t any single act—it’s the consistency.
No performance. No positioning. Just steadiness.
And interestingly, that kind of warmth feels more like home than anything else I’ve experienced here.
It reminds me of regional Australia.
Not the cities—the country towns.
Where loyalty isn’t declared. It’s demonstrated.
The Shift
So this week wasn’t really about disappointment.
It was about fluency.
Australia taught me to expect initiative.
America has taught me to read context.
And somewhere between those two, I’ve stopped assuming warmth will turn into action.
That’s the shift.
Because once you realise warmth and investment aren’t the same thing, you have a choice.
You can become guarded.
Or you can become deliberate.
I’ve started initiating more intentionally.
When I value someone, I don’t assume they know.
If I appreciate someone, I don’t leave it implied.
If I want something to continue, I don’t leave it floating in a sentence like:
“We should do this again.”
Recently, I caught myself about to say exactly that—and instead I said:
“Are you free next Thursday evening?”
It felt slightly unnatural. But it clarified everything.
Because now it wasn’t vague. It was real.
And what I’ve noticed is this:
When you initiate clearly, you see who responds.
Who reciprocates.
Who leans back in.
That’s when warmth becomes mutual.
That’s when steadiness reveals itself.
A Small Realisation
This week wasn’t about people being flaky.
It was about no longer taking social energy at face value.
It was about watching what follows.
And more importantly… becoming someone who follows through.
Because that’s the only part I can control.
And when I find warmth and consistency in the same person—
That’s when I feel at home.
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