Guest article by Tanya Crossman

In February 2004, I arrived in Beijing, China for a study-abroad year, excited about all the interesting things ahead of me. What I never saw coming was that it would change my entire life’s direction, and that this city would eventually feel like home more than any other city in the world.

In March 2020, I left Beijing for a three week business trip, excited about all the interesting things ahead of me. What I never saw coming was that my work permit would be canceled without warning, barring me from returning to my home and my husband. I didn’t know I would never return to China, and that my husband and I would still be living on separate continents nearly three years later. 

I’ve been reflecting on my journey a lot recently, as I’ve facilitated a coaching and community group for people who had been displaced from China/Hong Kong since the start of the pandemic. Even though I’m the facilitator—creating and sharing content, bringing icebreaker questions to the group—I feel as much a participant as anyone. It’s a wonderful experience to walk alongside each other as we unpack different elements of our journeys. We have been through similar experiences in the same context, and we understood. Shared stories are a blessing.

I was able to share about precious possessions that were lost forever due to a miscommunication and about the grief of not being present to say goodbye to—well, anything or anyone. I was able to share about how long it took me to realize: I don’t live in China anymore. And I was also able to share something I’ve explored a lot, in personal reflections and through therapy, over the last few years: the impact of living in limbo.

I have been living with my parents, in their home, in the house they bought when I was ten-years-old, for nearly three years. I am a married woman, and I turned forty while living here. This was most definitely not the plan. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in my own home, with my husband. 

When we realized I would not be able to return to China any time soon (and nearly three years later, that is still the case), we chose to leave. But as we do not share the same citizenship, that meant choosing immigration for one of us. For various reasons, we decided I would immigrate to his country. We have been working on that process for over eighteen months. 

This all means I have lived a ‘temporary’ sort of life for nearly three years now—living in a place I won’t stay, in a house that isn’t mine. My work is virtual/remote, as is my husband, and most of my friends as well. Most of my ‘in-person’ time is spent with family. I cherish this time (especially with my young niece and nephews) precisely because I know it is finite. At some undefined point in the future I will move to the other side of the world and no longer have access to them. Until then, I live here, in the in-between.

It can be very draining, emotionally and spiritually and physically, to live in the in-between. 

In between places, spaces, people, lives. 

Waiting for a shipping container to arrive, a job to be offered, an immigration visa to be granted, or an offer on a house to be accepted. 

Waiting for a sense of direction, to know where to next. 

Through my prolonged experience of limbo I have learned many lessons about how to do limbo life well–and how to do it badly! I have had times of joy and delight, and I’ve experienced times of deep depression. Most of what I’ve learned centers around one idea: movement. 

I am not stuck in limbo but rather am in a process of journeying through limbo. 

When we’re in a season of limbo, we generally don’t know when or how it’s going to end—when we’ll move, where we’ll move to, what our next job will be. This can leave us feeling stuck. I definitely feel that way sometimes. 

“I’m stuck in this country” or “I’m stuck in my parents’ house.” 

Yet even in seasons of limbo we can create movement. 

I can create small routines—be they weekly, or even daily. 

I can create small anticipations, and practice the emotion of excitement—whether it’s a TV show I’m watching with someone, or a visit to a cafe I like. 

I can also create goals which include expressions of creativity, hobbies, connection, or nature. If I make a goal to read three books, for example, and I finish three books before my season of limbo is over—I get a sense of accomplishment and movement, and can set a new goal. If my season of limbo is over first, I can continue working toward my goal in a new place. 

These goals come with a changed perspective of what my life ‘should’ look like. During this season of my life, thriving looks different. Rather than seeking to be on top of my game at everything, thriving during limbo means finding balance. I seek peace. And so I honor my mind and body for keeping me going through incredible stresses. I also honor my family—including my husband—for supporting me in this journey. 

Limbo tempts us to stuck-ness—to feel powerless and hopeless, especially when there is so much so visibly outside our control. Journeying through limbo means—without ever denying the pain of these external pressures—we get to choose how to move through life in the midst of them. 

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To learn more about the Displaced Lives community group mentioned, click here.

Tanya Crossman is an Adult TCK from Australia who lived most of her adult life in China. She currently lives with her parents in Australia (doting on her young niece and nephews!) while she awaits permission to join her husband in the US. She is the Director of Research and Education Services at TCK Training. Learn more about her at tanyacrossman.com and see her contributions to TCK research at tcktraining.com/research

Facebook/Instagram: @misunderstoodtck
Twitter: @tanyatck 
linkedin: tanya.crossman