Couches on Helicopters: Supporting Families Living Abroad
I had taken some grief for this couch. When I had come back from my first trip to the village and announced I would need a couch, coworkers scoffed. “Why can’t you just…” they started. Somehow a theology of suffering turned into almost a value of suffering, where softness and comfort were seen as disdainful luxuries, and those who needed it: weak.
Guest article by Elizabeth Smith
I was deflated on a seafoam green couch in a house woven of bamboo, deep in the jungles of Papua New Guinea. It was sweltering and muggy. Sitting outside would have been cooler but then I’d be in a cloud of flies instead of dealing with just the one dive bombing my head. The village was empty and my children were bored, bickering, and bouncing. My house on stilts swayed under their somersaults. And I was exhausted. I was stressed and overwhelmed and absolutely exhausted.
With hardly the energy to move my body, my fingers flicked over my phone, opening the Kindle App. My face flopped toward it and I read aloud, “Chapter Seven: The Wilderness.”
I thanked the Lord and the author of the book as my children hastened to sit on the floor in front of me, still and silent, as I dove into the story. Together we escaped into The Wild Robot.
I wish that in every such moment I’d had the wisdom and the wherewithal to choose a story. Sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I yelled, and sometimes I cried, and sometimes I wasn’t the mom I really wanted to be.
I curled up on the couch, finding strength in the rest of a good book. The page-long chapters were so delightfully short, I could easily answer the cry for “one more” a dozen or so times.
“Chapter Ten: The Reminder,” I continued.
I had taken some grief for this couch. When I had come back from my first trip to the village and announced I would need a couch, coworkers scoffed. “Why can’t you just…” they started. Somehow a theology of suffering turned into almost a value of suffering, where softness and comfort were seen as disdainful luxuries, and those who needed it: weak.
“People used to pack for the field in their own coffins,” they say.
Yes, but isn’t 360 spinner luggage so much nicer?
I need a couch because my children want to crawl into my lap and read a book. Because I’m not a gracious mother when I’m sitting on a box and they want in my space. And so I bought a four-piece living room set, loaded it on a helicopter, and set it up in my village house. The couch and loveseat in the living room with the coffee table in the corner between them, laden with books. The chair in their playroom so we could read as they played.
“Chapter Twelve: The Storm.”
My children laid on their backs, gazing into the log rafters, playing with the fringes of the blankets that fell over my couches. They weren’t for keeping warm, of course. They were for keeping the sweat off the cushions, and for added softness and comfort.
Earlier that year, I was sitting in a leadership team meeting, discussing the very issue of the need for permission and encouragement to seek such luxuries. I was exhausted then, too. We had just returned from a trip to the States. I was weary to the soul, constantly on the brink of tears, and struggling to put words to thoughts.
“This is important because,” I tried to wordsmith as I went, “leadership wants teams…to be…comfortable...” I finished lamely, failing to encapsulate what I had needed for the past three years, what I needed even then at that moment.
“Leadership wants teams to succeed,” the director jumped in.
Wow, that sounded good. Like something a board of directors would want to hear.
”Investment in simple luxuries directly correlates with workers’ longevity in their workplace, which increases the rate of productivity in direct proportion.”
But I didn’t want success at that moment. I wanted rest. I wanted softness and comfort and support, both from the things in my life and from the people in my life and from the leadership of my team.
And the problem is: when I am spent, I have nothing to give my children.
The problem is: when parents don’t have the support they need, their children don’t receive the support they need.
The problem is: 44% of third culture kids report emotional abuse, 39% report emotional neglect, 39% had an adult in their household experience mental illness.
This problem is huge, and this isn’t normal. This isn’t what we see in monocultural individuals. The CDC-Kaiser survey on monocultural US citizens shows much lower levels of these traumas (11%, 11%, and 19% respectively). It seems likely this discrepancy is due to the stress of the globally mobile lifestyle. Indeed, a 2012 study found that more than 50% of expatriate workers were at high risk for internalizing problems such as anxiety and depression, 2.5 times the rate of US-based workers at the same risk.
“Chapter Nineteen: The Observations.”
We may have been called to this global lifestyle but our children were not called to experience trauma. We can fulfill our callings without sacrificing our children on the altar of our work.
But I know it often doesn’t seem that way. I know there are often pressures that make it feel like the only option is stretching toward success until you have no margin to be the parent you want to be.
But you are not alone.
I’m here with you, shoving my couch onto a helicopter.
Even good organizations like the one I was with, which are actively doing the hard work of combatting long-held values of suffering over holistic health, are still fighting an uphill battle against a pervasive culture. For the sake of our children, we have to advocate. For our couches, for our budgets, for our travel plans, for our goals. We need to unpack the default expectations organizations have and appraise their value. We need to scrutinize the things that ask us and our families to bend to breaking for the sake of progress. We need to have faith that there is an option that cares well for our children and progresses our work.
“Chapter Twenty-One: The Introduction.”
And it can be lonely, as some people may scoff at your needs and wonder “why you can’t just…” I know not everyone has a supportive community they can rest in, but TCK Training is here for you. As someone who works with TCK Training, I love how being immersed in a community of people focused on excellent care for TCKs equips, encourages, and empowers me to be the parent I want to be to my TCKs. I want to share that with you.
You can be a part of this community, too. We’ve developed our parent membership for the purpose of having access to a library of resources to support you wherever you are in your parenting journey, and to have a network to lean into. Meet other parents who are just trying to do their best and learning more every day about how to advocate well for their children. It’s not necessarily easy, but TCK Training is here for you, to support you in your upcoming transition, to support you through the hardships of the globally mobile life, and to support you in advocating for your children.
“Chapter Twenty-Two: The New Word.”
I chose the wrong word before.
It’s not about being comfortable.
It’s about being comforted.
The chapter titles are directly from The Wild Robot which I cannot recommend enough. Learn more about our research on childhood traumas in TCK populations at www.tcktraining.com/research.
This guest article was written by Elizabeth Vahey Smith. Elizabeth is the author of The Practice of Processing: Exploring our Emotions to Chart an Intentional Course. After spending five years working in Papua New Guinea with her husband and two children, Elizabeth is now COO of TCK Training. Together with her family, she travels the world, sometimes to provide in-person services, and always for pleasure.