Ampersand

Grief, Grace and the God who holds it all

As someone who has lived and experienced life as both an immigrant and a TCK, I did not actually know or understand the concept of what a TCK life meant until about five years ago. Over the last few years, I have processed emotions and feelings I had wrestled with for a long time, but had never really had a space or community to work through them.

I have heard it said that TCKs — adult global children — are ampersand in nature. They can hold the good and the hard things in life simultaneously. They are used to holding the tension between two or multiple worlds, and they usually grow adept at it. As ampersands, we can honour the good and hold the challenging at the same time.

As an immigrant, I chose to move away from my country of origin and start a new life elsewhere. But as a third culture kid, I was not given that choice. I followed my parents wherever they led. They took me out of India and raised me in the Middle East, where I had a charming life — though I always felt slightly confused every time we returned to India, because I fit in, but didn’t quite fit in.

Then, as an adult, when I chose to move to the United States, the same feelings bubbled up inside me. But this time, I chose not to let them control me. As a child, when feelings of confusion, uncertainty, and not belonging rose to the surface, my well-meaning, loving parents taught me to adjust, compromise, and get used to a new way of doing things. Because I feared disappointing them, I obeyed. But fast-forward twenty years: as an adult, the only person I answer to with those feelings is myself.

When you choose to leave and build a life in a new country, there is an unspoken rule — you don’t get to complain. You don’t get to feel sad about not belonging or fitting in. And yet, what goes around comes around. In this season of life, I chose to raise my children in a country and culture different from the one they were born into, and this time, they didn’t get the choice either. I tried not to force them into peg holes that didn’t fit. Instead, I allowed them to embrace the culture they were being raised in, while also letting them experience their ethnic heritage in the safety of our home and the Indian diaspora.

Today, I stand on the brink of a new season. My children are young adults, making choices and decisions for their own lives. And for the first time, I am allowing myself to feel grief — the grief that comes with loss. Chunks of my life have been marked by it. There have also been many blessings and wonderful things. But I would be lying if I pretended the loss never existed. It exists, and it hurts. This time, I will not shut it down. I will allow myself to grieve, and I will grieve well, so that I can continue to hold that tension and grow healthier as the seasons change.

As a young woman, I did not realize the challenges that lay ahead. But as the seasons of life shift, it becomes important to name both the past and the losses to come. My husband and I traveled to India in December. We had family to see and a wedding to attend. My uncle had passed away, and I longed to be with my parents, my aunt, and my extended family. Attending my cousin’s wedding was one of the highlights of the trip.

For a family that travels to India every year, this trip — just eight days long and the first time we left our children behind — was uniquely different. I didn’t travel from city to city; I stayed in Chennai the whole time. I saw most of my cousins and friends throughout the week before Christmas, at church and other gatherings. I squeezed in coffees and lunches with friends from college, and for those I couldn’t meet in person, we made up for it with long phone calls. It left me deeply contemplative about life’s choices — the choice to travel, to make intentional connections, to stay in touch across distances. I am very thankful for the gift of WhatsApp.

The two days of the wedding celebration were precious. Not only did I get to meet most of my extended family, but I also got to sit back and truly enjoy the experience. Something about this trip felt different. We were not running from city to city, trying to squeeze in as many people and events as possible. This time, I gave myself space to breathe, savour, and take things in slowly — to meet fewer people, perhaps, but to truly enjoy the conversations and the extra time. That was a luxury.

Leaving Chennai, as always, I left a piece of my heart behind. But the grief I have felt over the years is not tied solely to the city or the country. It is tied to the people, my culture, my heritage, and my traditions — all of which have now been distilled and redesigned to fit the sensibilities of my American life. That knowledge brings me a deeper sense of loss and grief.

When I began life as a wife and mother at twenty-three, I had a playbook. Sure, it was tattered, dog-eared, and perhaps even old-fashioned, but I knew it well. I understood what was expected of me as an adult, as a good Indian wife and mother.

But I chose to leave — and this is a fact I remind myself of often. I chose to leave. I left the country of my birth and my culture, walking away in pursuit of a different life. A better life? Perhaps in some ways. But different, with opportunities I wanted. So I embraced the new, but I did not quite let go of the old. I held onto it loosely and reached for it often. The tension between what I had and what I left has lingered in my heart for years, and as the years have passed, that tension has only intensified.

What I need today is a healthy dose of selfishness. I may need to look at the life I have with gratitude rather than at what I left behind. Perhaps I ought to stop romanticizing what life was and could have been and face my reality. But that is easier said than done.

I wish I could hold the tension more easily these days. The seasons of life are changing — and changing quickly. What was manageable a decade ago is now complicated. The emotions are intense. Trying to explain how I feel is harder than ever.

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

But grief is an emotion one must feel. Having lived in spaces where I was not allowed to feel it, I now find myself entering grief willingly. I want to feel the pain, the loss, and the giving up of expectations.

I am reminded of the prophet Jonah. Most of us know him as the disobedient prophet who ran away and was swallowed by a fish. But there is more to his story.

Jonah had deep issues with the Ninevites and ran from God’s call in the opposite direction. He boarded a ship, and even the pagan sailors cried out to Jonah’s God to calm the storm (Jonah 1). Unable to run in the middle of the sea, Jonah asked to be thrown overboard, where God had already prepared a great fish to swallow him. He was running from God, but God got his attention through the storm. Jonah had no choice but to allow God to discipline and shape him.

I find myself in a similar season of conflict. I am not running from God, but I do not want this pain. I would much prefer the easy path. Yet I need to lean into this pain, allow God to heal me, and let Him produce the fruit of righteousness in me. God has a plan for my family and me. I don’t always like where He is taking me, but I can make the journey less painful by not resisting Him.

As we continue to follow Jonah, we discover that God had other plans entirely — Jonah does not perish in the ocean but finds himself in another impossible situation: the belly of a fish. In my own grief, I feel a little like a wounded animal, cornered and afraid. I am hurt, angry, lashing out at those around me, and wanting to be left alone. I cannot see a way out of the pain and anger mingled with sorrow, and part of me blames God for allowing life to unfold this way. But alongside that blame, I also recognize that God is the only one who can heal it.

In The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis writes that “God whispers to us in our pleasure, speaks through our conscience, but shouts in our pain — it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

God is using my pain to get my attention. I need to acknowledge that He is King and in control. Jonah knew the storm was God’s doing. God was in control of the waves, and when Jonah was thrown overboard, the storm stopped. Jonah knew who God was — and in the midst of his pain, he cried out to God, acknowledging His mercy and compassion. My grief may have taken hold of me, but God already knew that. By clinging to the pain, I only hurt more. I need to let it go and grab hold of Christ. I need to let go of my comfort, dreams, desires, and longings and surrender to God’s call. I need to stop fighting Him.

While I am in this season of grief, I also need to examine my heart for pride. For years, while speaking of God’s blessings and faithfulness, I have been proud. Proud of how I adjusted to life in a new country. Proud of how we navigated hard changes. Proud of walking in the tension between two worlds — and proud of being good at it. There have been many moments when I caught myself thinking, “Gosh, I am so much better than these people!” I have pushed those feelings aside while genuinely acknowledging God’s faithfulness, but the pride still lingers.

I ask myself now: Is God reminding me of how I have sinned against Him? Is this a call to repent? But repentance is not merely apologizing to God. It means change — a change of the heart that leads to a change of the mind, and therefore a change of will and action. So how do I repent and change my heart’s posture? Once again, I am called to surrender. I am to lay down my pride, ask God to forgive me, trust Him, and move forward. My pride was — and is — destructive to my soul. I need to put it down.

And in this season of grieving over what was and what could be, in the excruciating pain of laying down all my dreams and desires, I have found myself bargaining with God. Jonah bargained with God over Nineveh. He would rather have died than see the Ninevites turn to Yahweh. He wanted God to take his life.

I have bargained, too. I have asked God for signs. I have told Him everything I would do and could do if He just answered my prayers. My anger at God for allowing this pain created friction in multiple relationships. I wanted what I wanted. I wanted God to give me back what I had lost, to fix my pain and make things right — because, as far as I was concerned, I had done everything right. I left my country of origin, left my family behind, chose a new beginning, and built a life that looks enviable on social media. I did it, and I gave God all the glory. So now, I reasoned, He owed me.

But as a friend gently reminded me a few weeks ago, my anger toward God was not justified. I would never escape this anger, pain, and grief until I surrendered. She offered these words:

“Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you.” — 1 Peter 5:7

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

Armed with these promises, I began to practice letting go of the pain. Like a wounded animal slowly moving toward the one who could bind its wounds, I found myself stumbling toward God. I needed His love. I needed His arms around me. And yet I was afraid. If I gave up all my dreams — all the promises I believed He would fulfill in my life — what would be left? Would I be happy with what He would give me instead?

That is a question I do not yet have an answer to. Much like the ending of Jonah’s story, where we never see his full acceptance, I cannot see the future.

What I know is this: I have wrestled with the pain, the anger, and the grief, and I have surrendered them to God. I still feel like a wounded warrior in the process of healing — the scars are still raw. But like Jonah, I am grieving the loss of what I believed God’s will and plans ought to look like for my family and me.

I want a specific outcome. Is that how life will play out? But perhaps I am not alone in that. We have all had moments when things did not go as expected — and we have experienced loss. And then there is the space where we sit and process the grief.

In my life, I have faced many losses, and with every season, gratitude and grief have walked hand in hand. Perhaps that is how it has always been — and will always be — for those of us who navigate multiple spaces and cultures, living perpetually in the in-between. There is a beauty in that. But it takes time to find and truly appreciate it.

Still, just as God orchestrated the journey of Jonah’s life and has faithfully orchestrated mine so far, I know He will continue to write the notes and compose the melody that will glorify His name in my life. My grief is not wasted. He sees me. And His plans for my life are far better than my own.

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