Homecoming: how counsellors can adjust to returning home

I remember when I was about 15 years old, staying up late after my dad had gone to bed, watching Once Upon A Time in China on Channel 4. These obscure films inevitably played around midnight, and on this occasion I was mesmerised by the gravity-defying kung-fu choreography and the effortless acrobatics of its star, Jet Li.

Little did I know that less than five years later, I would find myself on a plane to China, with a freshly minted TEFL qualification in hand, about to embark on the biggest adventure of my young life. I felt like Frodo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings, having literally grown up in the Shire – Buckinghamshire – in a small, leafy village (Marlow Bottom, not too dissimilar from the rolling green valleys of Hobbiton) and having led quite a sheltered life up until that point.

A life across two continents

Over the next 20 years, my life unfolded across two continents, like two distinct maps spread out on a table in front of me. Living and working in China, I gained linguistic and cultural fluency, and it set me on a path that was to be the blueprint for the rest of my career. 

I returned to the UK in 2008 to complete a degree (BA in Chinese). A few years later, I began working in student recruitment and admissions, before the call to the other side rang out (no, not as a funeral director), and I finally achieved my ambition of becoming a school counsellor in 2019, in a bilingual IB school in Hong Kong.

On my Asia map timeline, I lived in the inescapable tropical heat of Singapore for almost four years, eating as much crispy prata and Hokkien mee as I could, while exploring the island’s remarkable colonial and maritime history. 

Both of my children were born there – at great expense (I still keep the hospital receipt in my wallet and whip it out whenever they are being naughty to remind them what a significant investment they were) – before we moved to Hong Kong and endured some of the strictest quarantine and lockdown measures in the world. We revelled in hiking the Dragon’s Back trail, swimming at Repulse Bay and feasting ourselves silly in the city’s still vibrant food and beverage scene, all the while trying to ignore the insidious geopolitical churn taking place in the background.

The pandemic in HK got too much, and so we escaped to the peaceful, idyllic island of Bali, Indonesia – except it wasn’t peaceful or idyllic. It was noisy (dogs), busy (traffic), itchy (mosquitoes) and relentlessly in-your-face. Yet it was also somehow suffused with the innate calm, peace and tranquillity exuded by our ever-gracious Balinese hosts. I climbed volcanoes, jumped in waterfalls, had beach playdates, drank an ungodly amount of fresh coconut milk and worked tirelessly at a wall-less jungle school made of bamboo, with a living curriculum centred on sustainability.

The tug of home

As a family, we had spent 10 years dashing and dancing around Asia, having wonderful experiences (and evading uncomfortable ones, like the pandemic), yet never fully feeling grounded or growing roots in any of the places we’d lived. We had discussed where to go after Bali: the Philippines (my wife is from Manila), Tanzania, Costa Rica, Hungary…These places, ripe for new adventures, were all on the table for discussion. But it felt like there were too many pins in the map.

And then, one day, the message came: “Jim, I’ve been diagnosed with prostate cancer. I am being looked after at the hospital. Don’t worry about me. Dad.”

Suddenly, home was tugging at my heartstrings – but I hadn’t lived “at home” since before my kids were born. After existing in the tropics for so long, how would I cope with the notoriously dreadful British weather? What if my kids didn’t like it? What if I didn’t like it? 

I initially chose to leave the UK for an adventure, sure, but I was also consciously escaping a difficult family dynamic and the shame of being kicked out of secondary school: shame that hung around my neck like a big dead albatross. What if all that shame and complexity came rushing back?

Becoming the hero in your own journey

However, the transition couldn’t have gone smoother. Six months after moving back, family relationships are solid, honest and open-hearted. Dad’s radiotherapy was a success. Working in a truly delightful international school – TASIS England – really is the best of both worlds: situated in the quintessentially English village of Thorpe, yet home to a beautifully diverse international community of learners hailing from more than 70 countries. 

Stepping on to campus feels like stepping out into the world – yet I am still home, grounded, close to family and friends, and close to Dad. I’ll admit that when I was in school I didn’t even know that the concept of international schools existed. But here I am, working in one and sharing my own knowledge, experiences and (ahem) wisdom of living internationally. 

My journey feels like the classic hero’s journey arc: protagonist feels the call to adventure, meets mentors and challenges along the way and returns home a changed person. And, honestly, it just feels right to be back home. 

Many international educators face the same challenges. With family in their home country, yet a life (and perhaps their own family) abroad, it can feel like you are living a life split across a meridian line: never fully present in either, yet profoundly shaped by both.

I believe that at some point, we all might feel the tug of home, and your concept of “home” begins to align fully with the person you have become – and the journey is complete. 

Think about those reasons why you left home and if they are still valid today, or if you have transcended them to become the hero in your own journey. Working internationally in education gives you a rich and valuable perspective for the concept of home – and perhaps a newfound appreciation for it, too.