Is cultural drift inevitable? For international students navigating life in a new country, the balance between holding onto their roots and embracing change is a constant negotiation. At what point do these shifts stop being temporary adjustments and become fundamental parts of who we are?
Having moved to the U.S. alone just over half a year ago, I still constantly think about the city I grew up in: Shanghai, China. Oceans away, nestled in an uptown neighborhood, our apartment was quaint, yet it was undeniably home for 18 years.
Even now, waking up in my Scripps College triple dorm, I sometimes forget where I am, mistaking the vacuum cleaner in the hall for the familiar whir of my mother’s coffee machine. It’s in those moments of disorientation that I reach for the small reminders of home — my drawers hold a bottle of chili oil from a famous dumpling chain, the packaging of disposable face towels marked with Chinese characters and other knick-knacks that anchor me to my roots.
Because of all of this, I believed my connection to home was unshaken.
But during winter break, stepping off a 16-hour flight, I stumbled. At the immigration counter, I stuttered, struggling to explain to a skeptical officer in Mandarin that my fingerprints were already in the system. My mind went blank. I wanted to shove my travel permit at the officer — proof of 20 years in Shanghai — but the words wouldn’t come. A thin layer of sweat gathered on my forehead as I resorted to frantic gestures. The officer let me through, but my stomach churned. I had grown up speaking Chinese fluently, yet after just one semester in Claremont, my mother tongue had slipped from me without even noticing.
I felt an unfamiliar dissonance, like I was caught between two versions of myself. This wasn’t a mere brain fart, but a more unsettling realization: After just a few months in the U.S., had I already changed more than I thought?
Many international students experience this shift in cultural identity, often without realizing it until they return home, a phenomenon known as reverse culture shock. Living in the U.S. means absorbing new habits, new ways of thinking and sometimes even a new rhythm of speech. But what happens when those changes make home feel just a little less familiar? For some, it’s exciting — proof of personal growth and adaptability. For others, it’s disorienting, a reminder that they are no longer the same person who left.
This gradual development in identity doesn’t happen all at once — it unfolds in stages, sometimes subtly, sometimes jarringly. Theories of cultural adaptation attempt to map this journey, offering a framework for understanding the emotional highs and lows of adjusting to a new environment.
The process of cultural adaptation is often described through models like the W-Curve Model, where individuals first experience a “honeymoon phase” in a new culture, followed by culture shock, gradual adjustment and eventual biculturalism. At first, everything feels novel and exciting, but over time, the dissonance of being in a foreign environment sets in, often in unexpected ways.
“Having moved to the U.S. alone just over half a year ago, I still constantly think about the city I grew up in: Shanghai, China.“
One of the starkest signs of this shift is language attrition. Even fluent bilinguals can experience temporary language loss when immersed in an environment where their native language is rarely spoken. A few weeks into break, I was having dinner with my mom’s best friend when I blanked on a Chinese word. My parents had come to accept my occasional lapses, but in front of an elder to whom I should show deference, it was humiliating. She didn’t let it slide. “Oh, so you’ve forgotten how to speak Chinese!” she teased. The shame hit instantly— I hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she had done it for me. Tomy Helman PO ’28, an Arts & Culture columnist for TSL from Buenos Aires, described a similar experience, where those back home started perceiving his Spanish as “anglicized” after studying in the U.S.
Beyond language, cultural identity itself becomes more fluid. The concept of Third Culture Kids captures this in-betweenness — students shaped by multiple cultures often struggle to feel fully at home in any of them. I felt this isolation not just back home but also continuously in the U.S., whether hesitating when my Chinese accent slipped out mid-presentation or feeling lost in conversations filled with American pop culture references I didn’t understand. But for some, these shifts are a privilege rather than a loss.
“Even though my upbringing is very different from the majority of people at the 5Cs, I’m grateful that I now have an understanding I can exchange with others,” said Nesserine Bouda SC ’28, an international student from London. Indeed, having roots in multiple cultures is an asset — it fosters broader perspectives, deeper connections and the ability to navigate different spaces with ease.
For others, cultural transition is further complicated by racial and ethnic identity. Liyenna Khaderi SC ’28, who is from Dubai, spoke of the challenges of suddenly becoming part of a racial minority: “I’m used to being surrounded by majority South and West Asian as well as North African people and cultures, which is nothing like Claremont or the 5Cs. That’s probably been the biggest culture shock for me — being part of the minority.” She described an underlying fear of discrimination, a concern often unspoken but ever-present at Scripps, her predominantly white home institution. Research has long shown the harmful effects of perceived racial discrimination on mental and physical health, making her concerns far from unfounded. For many international students, navigating a predominantly white environment adds another layer of cultural adjustment.
So, what does all this reveal about our identity?
Cultural identity is not a static construct; it is fluid, constantly evolving as we navigate different environments. Many international students come to realize that their identities are not binary. They do not have to choose between being fully American or fully tied to their home culture. Instead, they exist in the in-between, shaping a cultural identity that is uniquely their own. This hybridity can feel unsettling at first, but over time, it becomes a strength — an ability to move between cultures with ease, to draw from multiple worldviews and to redefine what home truly means.
Perhaps the next time I stutter in Chinese, instead of feeling shame, I’ll remind myself that language may falter, but home is something I carry with me. As long as I know where my roots are, I can feel grounded — no matter where I am or what words escape me.
And to my fellow international first-years: We are not lost. We are becoming more.
Rochelle Lu SC ’28 is from Kaohsiung, Taiwan, and Shanghai, China. Tucked in the back of her phone case, she carries a Polaroid photo of her and her cat from the day she left for college — along with a strand of fur from her other cat.
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