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I sent my son to Australia alone when he was 13 so he’d be more independent. Now that he’s an adult, I get advice from him.

by with No Comment Xpandfy

As a mom, I’ve made a few what-was-I-thinking parenting decisions.

The first, and perhaps the most consequential, was choosing to send my oldest son to work on a banana plantation in Australia for 10 weeks the summer prior to his freshman year of high school. I believed it would accelerate his maturity and help him develop a worldview that might broaden his horizons in the future.

I did it to fulfill my primary goal in raising my five children — to guide them from total dependence to independence while they lived under my roof.

My son was 13 when he left, which, because he was the first of my kids to reach that age, didn’t seem that young at the time. He celebrated his 14th birthday in the Outback and returned home brimming with newfound wisdom and confidence. None of his siblings chose to replicate this trip, which was fine with me once I realized 13 was a really young age to send a child to the other hemisphere.

My kids know more than me

In preparation for the plantation work, his team learned rudimentary construction skills, such as laying bricks and pouring concrete. When he returned home, he proved how adept he’d become by mixing concrete for a memorial stone for his dog, who died while he was away.

As I watched him patiently cure the cement, I realized this kid knew a lot more than any of the rest of us. From that day forward, he was the one to fix the cracks in the front pathway, level the driveway, and lay the bricks for the patio.

Six years later, he asked me how I’d made the decision to leave home when I was his age. It was his way of preparing me for his departure, one of the best decisions he’s ever made.

My kids set an example for me

Even though I was sad to see him go, I didn’t discourage him from moving from Boston to San Francisco. Those first few months on the West Coast were challenging, but it didn’t take long for him to find his footing. Within the year, he enrolled in art school and today has a flourishing career as an artist in LA.


Man cooking meats

Courtesy of the author



His fearlessness set an example for me, who, a few years later, followed him westward. Upon our arrival, this oldest child, now well established, helped his youngest sibling and me set up housekeeping. He recommended the car dealer, the bank, and the furniture store with the best deals. He even suggested which barber his youngest brother should use.

Now I’m the one asking questions

My children do not just offer practical advice. They inspire me. Three are talented artists making names for themselves. On those rare occasions when we gather to share a meal, I walk away praying that their artistic genius will spark my own creativity. I ask them how they come up with ideas. I stalk — I mean follow — them on social media to learn how they promote their work. I talk to them about business plans and strategies that lead to success.

It’s no longer appropriate for me to offer suggestions

What I don’t do is offer them professional advice. That was a tough pivot for me. For too many years, it was my job to review homework and make suggestions on how to improve an essay or refine a research paper. I learned the hard way that these professionals no longer need that.

My son, who’s a photographer, has kept a 3-year-old email from me in his inbox as a reminder that Mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I honestly don’t remember writing that I thought the subjects of his photo essay should smile more, but I did.

I welcome their advice

I don’t mind when they offer me advice. In fact, I welcome it. I want my son, who works in finance, to recommend investment opportunities. I want my daughter, who has a talent for decorating, to suggest the color for my bedroom walls. I’m open to them telling me how best to interact with my grandchildren.

My children have become wise adults. I think it’s a combination of life experience, book learning, and their innate abilities to figure things out. I appreciate learning from what they’ve learned along the way, and now it’s my turn to benefit from their guidance.




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I moved back to Australia after decades in the US. The culture shock stunned me

by with No Comment Xpandfy

When I was in my early 30s, I went for a three-week holiday to my home in Sydney and never left.

For years, I had toyed with the idea of moving back home, a place I had not lived since I was 7 years old. I’d even made a couple of attempts at it, but the comfortable pull of family and more than 25 years of life in the US always lured me back.

When extending my trip week by week turned into deciding to stay, I assumed slotting back into life in Australia would be the easiest move of my life. After all, I was used to adjusting to a new environment. My father’s job in the film industry meant I spent my childhood moving frequently (13 different schools in multiple cities and countries).

Surely moving back home would feel as comforting as slipping on a well-worn, much-loved cardigan. I was wrong.

The unexpected culture shock of coming home

I never thought I would experience culture shock moving back to Australia, but that was exactly what happened. All my years overseas meant I had missed large parts of general knowledge, I didn’t understand cultural references or sayings, and I found Australian politics completely befuddling.

Although I still sounded Australian, a quick conversation, which inexplicably always started with “where did you go to high school?” quickly established I was not from here. After being viewed as a foreigner my whole life in the US, I was now viewed as a foreigner in Australia, too.

What’s more, I realized with surprise that I was culturally very American. All the things I had taken for granted in the US (convenience, customer service, and affordability) just didn’t exist in Australia.

I had to do some life adjustments

There were the daily frustrations of not being able to get a coffee past 3 p.m. (or before 7 a.m.), no salad bars or real Mexican food, and the expense of absolutely everything (Sydney is Australia’s most expensive city).

Cultural norms were an even bigger adjustment. Handshakes for acquaintances and bear hugs for friends (standard etiquette in the US) were replaced with one or two kisses to the side of (not on) the cheek.

Making friends with Sydney-siders felt hard, so I initially gravitated toward foreigners who were generally open and friendly. When I’d meet Americans, I felt an innate level of comfort and familiarity unlike anything else.

I had expected it to be easy to move back

In my first year back home, I thought a lot about the phrase “you can never go home again.” I’d always been pretty dismissive of it, believing I could return to Australia at any time and it would feel like home. Finally, I came to understand the truth in the phrase. We just can’t return to a previous place or point in life and recapture our original experience.

Just like I adjusted to the culture shock of moving to the US as a little girl (hello, mayo on sandwiches, ice in water, and excessive air conditioning), I needed to acclimatize to Australia. I had been making the move so much harder than it needed to be because I expected it to be easy and familiar.

As I started to let go of the expectation that I’d fit right in, I started to feel more at home, back home. I built up experiences and connections that grounded me, and as I got older, my American background became less noticeable and less relevant. It’s taken a long time, but I now feel entirely at home here. In the end, the key was to start from scratch and get to know my hometown as an adult, rediscovering my Australian identity along the way.




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