I am a child of immigrants and I grew up in a small city in New Zealand. I looked different to everyone else, at home I spoke a different language and ate different food compared to my classmates. Because of these differences, I always felt I was not as Kiwi as they were. We learned exactly the same things at school but our home lives were dissimilar.

When I was seven years old I had heard from my classmates about the tooth fairy. They told me that if your tooth comes out put it in an envelope and place it under your bed. The tooth fairy will take your tooth away and exchange it for money. I thought it would be a good swap as I didn’t need the tooth any more. I popped the tooth into the envelope, and addressed it, “To the Tooth Fairy.” I placed the little package under my bed, stirring up lots of dust which made me sneeze. For the next week, I checked on the little package every day after school. I opened it up expecting to find some cash, but all I could see each time was the same old tooth. After seven times and many sneezy afternoons with itchy eyes, I gave up on the tooth fairy. She was added to my list of fakes along with Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny.

Each afternoon when I arrived home I would have to take my shoes off and put on indoor slippers. I was expected to speak to my parents and brother in Mandarin Chinese. We would always have rice for dinner and it would be Chinese food. My parents had lived in New Zealand for a while by this time but they still did not like the local food. Back in those days if they wanted to eat things like steamed buns they would have to make them from scratch. They learned how to make their own egg noodles and wonton wrappers. Once a year we would all go on a road trip to one of the bigger cities to buy Chinese groceries that were not available in my home town. Pantry staples such as soya sauce, peanut oil, short-grained rice and canned foods. My parents seemed to have different ideas and values compared to my classmates’ parents. They often talked about how different it was for them when they were children. Despite my best efforts I could never be as Chinese as my parents were. I often found myself having to be a bridge between the two worlds.

I ended up growing up in between the local Kiwi culture and my parents’ more traditional Chinese culture. I was constantly reminded about how incompletely I fit into neither culture. At times I felt different and misunderstood by everyone. In between two worlds and searching for a world of my own. Maybe this influenced my career choice. Palliative care operates in the space between the usual healthcare world of saving lives and death. I find myself being the bridge between two healthcare cultures, not fully feeling like I belong in either camp. What’s new?