some thoughts on identity, culture and the meaning of home.
Hello, thank you for joining me. Greetings to those who’ve been with me in my previous life of sharing of thoughts on the internet and hello to those new connections i’ve been ever so lucky to make in recently and finally, hello to those just popping by for a look.
Below is a series of thoughts I had the other night that I wanted to properly express for myself and leave here.
There’s a peculiar clarity that comes to me in the quiet hours of the night, often unbidden, usually unfiltered and generally after a night of alcohol based festivities. Walking down Leith Walk recently—a route I’ve tread countless times before—I found myself wrestling with thoughts about identity, culture, and what it truly means to call a place “home.”
It struck me how strange it was to return to Scotland after months in London, as if holding a mirror to my own fragmented sense of self. Scotland is where I was raised, yet I’ve never felt fully anchored here—or anywhere. Being mixed-race has always placed me between worlds. In Thailand, my mother’s homeland, I am “too white to be Asian”. In Scotland, I am “too Asian to be white”. These binaries have quietly shaped my life, instilling a sense of detachment from belonging to any one culture or place.
This feeling resurfaced with unexpected intensity when I thought about my graduation, an occasion so many hold dear. I missed it—not through neglect, but necessity. I had an assessment in London that day, and while others might treasure their graduation photos as lifelong markers of achievement, I’ve made my peace with its absence. I didn’t feel the pang of FOMO, which surprised me at first. But upon reflection, I realize it’s tied to a deeper truth: my identity has never been rooted in singular moments or traditions. It exists in the in-between, in the quiet spaces where definitions dissolve.
As I walked, lost in thought, a stranger emerged from the shadows of Leith Walk. I was enjoying a Magnum—one of those small indulgences that feels absurd and perfect in the late hours (No temperature is too cold for ice cream)— he struck up a conversation. He turned out to be a student of Celtic history, and what began as banter quickly turned profound. We spoke about the irony of Harvard hosting one of the world’s most extensive Celtic studies programs while so many Scots, myself included, fail to fully reckon with the depth of our own heritage. In America, the faintest trace of Celtic ancestry is celebrated; here, it often feels like a relic taken for granted.
This conversation lingered with me, not just for what it said about heritage but for what it revealed about myself. In my pursuit of theatre, particularly in London’s competitive landscape, have I let parts of my Scottish identity fade into the background? Is there an unspoken cost to fitting into an industry that often feels so far removed from the culture I grew up in?
Theatre has always been my chosen medium for exploring these questions, and yet, it too can feel like a balancing act. I want to create work that resonates with my heritage, that reflects the complex interplay of cultures within me. But I also know the realities of ambition—how easily it can strip away the specificity of identity in favor of broader appeal.
And yet, I am learning that identity is not a fixed thing, nor is it tied to geography. Home, I’ve realized, is not a place but an internal state—a quiet knowing that transcends borders and expectations. It is the sum of all the cultures, contradictions, and connections that make us who we are.
That night, walking down Leith Walk, these thoughts coalesced in a way that felt both grounding and liberating. In this small moment—a drunken chat, a melting Magnum, the hum of the city around me—I found clarity in the complexity. And perhaps that is where identity truly resides: not in the answers, but in the questions we keep asking.