Living authentically: trusting yourself in a world that judges

Part 3 of 5: Beyond the Golden Ghetto

In college, I loved reading Thomas Mann's "Clothes Make the Man." This short story follows a character who, by wearing elegant clothes, is mistaken for a nobleman. But his charade unravels, and he’s humiliated when his true identity is revealed.

Ironically, I lived the inverse while living in the Swiss Alps: I wore trekking clothes and tried to hide any signs of wealth to avoid judgment.

The fear of appearing arrogant was one factor. Learning about my father’s world was another. My father had been a mountain guide who had painted houses, coached hockey, and worked as a lumberjack and stunt man in a James Bond movie (a Pitz Gloria guard). While some might have distanced themselves from their humble roots, I took pride in mine.

But pride didn’t shield me from reality.

Early warnings

People tried to warn me. My Swiss lawyer advised: "Don't reveal anything personal to your neighbors." A child psychologist added, 'You’ll never fully integrate into the community.'

Initially, I dismissed these warnings as elitist and small-minded, and lacking generosity of spirit. I didn’t yet understand that privacy wasn't about superiority—it was a defense against the gossip and judgment that thrive in a small, tight-knit community. I also didn’t understand that my lifestyle would be seen as a threat to those who struggled to make ends meet.

At the time, I brushed it off, determined to make it work.

Disappearing to fit in

I convinced myself that appearing modest was the right choice. Having just received a settlement from my family trust, I felt an even stronger urge to downplay my circumstances. But no matter how much I tried to blend in, I couldn't shield my family from the repercussions of our lifestyle choices. When I bought my children new bikes or bought flights to the US to visit family—or even traded my old Outback for a new one—they came home in tears, bullied by their peers, kids who had to muck out cow stalls before school. My “playing small” wasn’t protecting anyone.

Each choice to blend in slowly eroded my sense of self. My children’s tears and our collective isolation made it painfully clear—I wasn’t just blending in; I was disappearing.

Reclaiming myself

Friends from my past life came to visit and reminded me of the person I had once been. Yes, I was sober, working on my black belt in karate, and physically healthier than before, but I wasn’t living authentically. This realization prompted change. I began making different choices: upgrading my wardrobe, caring about my appearance, getting a stylish haircut, joining a writing group, taking piano lessons, and enrolling my children in private school.

These decisions came with their own set of challenges. A neighbor asked:
“Now that your kids are in private school, will you deem to spend time with us?"

I responded, “Of course, don’t be silly,” but I felt a growing chasm in our relationship. At the same time, an intimate relationship ended—I had gone to another world, he said.

To navigate these shifts, I hired executive life coach Grant Calder—a high school friend living in Stockholm. Together, we worked to clarify my values, create a vision board, identify where I was stuck, and to develop a plan to move forward.

Understanding toxic dynamics

I bought a summer home in Newport to spend time with family while maintaining boundaries. But this brought a new kind of discomfort. People who had ignored me during my years as a struggling journalist and newspaper manager suddenly sought my friendship. My wealth had become my calling card, and the attention felt hollow.

My experiences in Newport reminded me of a client who had faced a similar dynamic. After generously supporting a friend—covering rent, food, and expenses—he discovered that what he thought was a friendship had turned into resentment. The friend became a self-appointed "spy," relaying negative comments others had made about my client. This dynamic exemplifies what Brené Brown calls "common enemy intimacy"—a false bond built on shared negativity. True connections elevate; toxic ones corrode trust and self-worth.

Building trust and reclaiming identity

The path to rebuilding trust and authenticity requires intentional steps:

1. Invest in relationships slowly: Use Brené Brown's BRAVING framework to evaluate trustworthiness. Watch how people reveal themselves over time before sharing vulnerabilities.

2. Center yourself in your values: Authenticity isn't about displaying or hiding wealth—it's about alignment with what matters to you.

3. Cultivate supportive communities: Connect with others who share similar experiences and circumstances.

4. Choose your confidants carefully: When interactions leave you feeling drained, used, or abused, it's time to reevaluate.

5. Establish clear boundaries: Do not do for others what they can do for themselves. You don’t always have to be the first to pick up the tab.

6. Decline relationships or situations that conflict with your values, even when past generosity or loyalty makes it difficult.

Finding your truth

Thomas Mann's character wore elegant clothes to mask his reality. I made myself plain and uninteresting to hide from mine. But in reclaiming my authenticity, I discovered that living truthfully is the greatest form of self-respect.

The question isn't whether judgment and envy will exist—they will. The question is: will you trust yourself enough to rise above them and live authentically?

If this resonates with you, and you’re ready to reclaim your authenticity, I invite you to learn more about my coaching practice. Currently, I’m all booked up, but I’ll be opening a few spots for new clients at the start of the new year. If you’d like to join the waitlist and be the first to know when spots become available, click here to sign up.

The Journey of an Adult Third Culture Kid: finding home and belonging

As I sit in my quiet living room, I open WhatsApp, and my heart skips a beat as I see a new post in my old hiking group. Tapping on the image, it expands to reveal a breathtaking scene from the Swiss Alps near Gryon.

In the photograph, my friends are walking through a pristine, snow-covered landscape. The majestic mountains rise behind them, the snow sparkles and covers the tree branches heavily.  

I zoom in on the picture, and nostalgia washes over me. I see the smiling faces of my friends, their cheeks pink from the mountain air. Some walk side by side, deep in conversation. Their dogs bound through the snow, tails wag with joy.

As I study the image, I can almost feel the crunch of the snow beneath my boots, the sharing of stories, dreams, and fears as we walked together. The mountains became a sanctuary, a place where I could escape the chaos of the world and find solace in good company.

I yearn to be there with them, to feel the invigorating exertion of the hikes and the warmth of their friendship. But as I sit here, miles away, I realize that even though I may not be with them physically, a part of me will always belong to those majestic peaks and the incredible women who walk among them.

As an Adult Third Culture Kid, I may not have a single place to call home, but in moments like these, I realize that home is not just a location—it's the people and experiences that matter.

As an Adult Third Culture Kid (ATCK), I've often found myself grappling with the question, "Where do I belong?" Born to an American mother from Bostonian families and a Swiss mountain guide father, my childhood was a mosaic of different countries and cultures.

From the moment I was born in Chicago in 1970, my life has been a series of moves. I spent time in Ocala, Florida, and Switzerland before moving to Rivières, France, from 1973 to 1975. Monaco was my home from 1975 to 1981, followed by stints in Newport, Rhode Island, North Andover, Massachusetts, Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and New York City.

In 1994, I found myself in Germany, only to return to Newport from 1995 to 2002. Switzerland beckoned once more, and I spent the next 17 years there until 2019. After a brief stay in Florida, cut short by Covid, I returned to Newport in 2020. Recently, I’ve been sharing my time in Newport, New York, and Costa Rica.

Throughout this journey, I've often felt a sense of longing and wistfulness when I see my expat friends hiking together in the Swiss Alps. Despite my deep connection to Switzerland through my late father, I never quite felt like I totally belonged in his village.

Similarly, I don't feel a strong sense of belonging in the United States. As an ATCK, I've come to realize that "home" is a complex concept that transcends geographical boundaries. It's not about a specific place but rather the experiences, relationships, and memories that shape us.

Growing up in different countries has given me a wide perspective on life and an appreciation for diversity. It has taught me adaptability, resilience, and the importance of embracing change. While the question of where I truly belong may never have a clear-cut answer, I continue to enjoy the connections I've made along the way.

A chance encounter with Nature Journaling

Yesterday, while out walking on a Costa Rican beach, I met a wandering “nature journaler” documenting his natural surroundings through sketches and words. As his Youtube channel shows, nature journaling involves observing and recording plants, animals, landscapes, and our sensory experiences of the outdoors.

I showed him my own notebooks filled with passages penned during my morning and evening rituals. We discussed favorite pens, the perils of digital distractions, and personal benefits from this reflective habit.

Our conversation turned to society’s excessive self-focus. With constant identity broadcasting across social platforms, are we losing connection to community purpose? I brought up my favorite prayer questionably attributed to St Francis which reminds us that living meaningfully starts with self-care and compassion. “Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console...For it is in giving that one receives.”

Perhaps it is not selfishness driving individuals inward these days but rather a longing for meaning. What better compass than our planet itself?

I welcome any feedback or experiences with contemplative outdoor practices bringing balance amidst modern disorientation! Finding integrated meaning often starts alone in stillness but culminates together in contribution.

Echoes of the unspoken

In my forties, I found the courage to confront the man I had recently started seeing - tall, undeniably handsome, with an athletic build and exuding a charm that was hard to resist. He was younger than me by at least 10 years, and his smile had a way of melting my resolve.

“It’s time for a serious talk,” I said. “I can’t go on in a relationship where we don’t truly talk to each other.”

“Okay…” he replied, flashing that heart-melting smile.

“Listen, it’s not about you personally, but I can’t be with someone who isn’t open to communicating.”

I was holding back the full truth. His heavy drinking, his strong and often judgmental opinions were real problems.

"Are you seeing other women? I asked him.

“So, women don’t really change with age,” he quipped, dodging the question.

I pressed on, needing to know where I stood.

"I just need to know if you see me as someone special in your life or just as a friend.”

"I see you as a lovely and beautiful friend,” he answered, his tone cheerful yet dismissive.

And with that, I got the answer that told me everything I needed to know.

“Thank you. Now, I know where I stand,” I said, forcing a smile while my heart sank.

Another rejection. Deep down, I had sensed the truth, yet part of me had hoped for a different outcome. Why was I continuously drawn to men who were emotionally unavailable? Was it something about me that was irreparably broken?

A week later, I brought up these thoughts with my therapist.

"You might run away from a good man," she said.

“Really? Why would I do that?”

"Deep emotional intimacy might scare you. It might feel suffocating.”

"But why?"

"Because such closeness in your childhood brought you immense pain. It’s a defense mechanism."