Don't Forget to Sing When You Win

It’s official. The plane tickets have been bought. We’re getting ready to leave.

I’ve moved dozens of times in my life—across cities, countries, and continents. I’ve packed duffel bags for Brazil and carried my whole world in a suitcase back to the US. You would think the more you do it, the easier it would get.

But it doesn’t.

When I graduated from high school, my parents thought it would be “fun” to count how many times I had moved since birth. The final tally between 1974 and 1993: twelve different houses, nine of them in different cities. Six were international moves, either to Brazil or to the US.

Moving became routine. The first time we made the move, my parents packed a full set of pots and pans, kitchen plates, and—bizarrely—a stand mixer. Maybe they thought we couldn’t get those things there. Or maybe they just wanted familiar items in unfamiliar places. Every four years, we would pack up our lives, leave Brazil, and move back to the United States for one year. This was supposed to be a time of rest, but in actuality, it was a time my dad would travel all over the United States preaching and raising money for the next four years of living in Brazil.

Every time we arrived back in the U.S. from Brazil, it felt like starting over. Everything we had accumulated and built our lives with over the last four years—furniture, daily-use items, the things that made up our routines—was packed and stored in Brazil. We brought back to the U.S. only what we could fit into a suitcase. Starting from scratch might not seem like a big deal. I mean, is it only for one year?

Right?

No.

It was one of the hardest things I had to work through, even as an adult. I didn’t have access to the things that brought me comfort. No books. No music. None of the small personal things that made our house feel like home. It wasn’t just about stuff, it was about feeling uprooted, again and again. That sense of loss wasn't just about what was left behind; it was about who I was without it. The absence of familiar things revealed a deeper ache: the lack of a solid place to belong, to feel rooted.

What I recognize, now, as an adult, is that it went beyond missing the materialistic things, but missing the feeling of belonging to a place, a culture, a life that didn’t evaporate every time we crossed a border. There’s a term for this: Third Culture Kid. We’re raised in a “neither/nor” world. Neither fully the culture of our parents nor fully the culture of the places we live. That in-between-ness shaped me, for better or worse. It still does.

I’ve often wondered how different my life—and I—might have been if my family had stayed in one place during my formative years. Would we have settled down in Indiana? Would I have gone to Olivet Nazarene College? Would I have kept the same friends all the way through graduation? Would I have felt more rooted, more certain of who I was?

At one point in time, these questions would haunt me. While they don’t anymore, they do linger. And while I’ve made peace with that part of my life, I’m realizing that some patterns don’t disappear just because you grow up. I spent much of my early life learning not to get too attached. Friends, routines, even parts of myself—everything had a shelf life of four years. When that time came, every relationship would be left behind. I thought I was getting good at goodbyes, not realizing I was storing away years of separation anxiety I wouldn’t fully understand until much later.

Sometimes, I think about that version of me—the one in my fantasy that got to grow up with continuity and predictability. But that’s not the life I had. And now, facing another move, I realize just how much that rootless past still echoes in my present. The truth is, this move isn’t a straight line. Amanda and Ivy can stay because they have student visas. I don’t. So I’ll be moving back and forth every few months. In a way, it feels familiar, the in-between life I knew as a kid. Never fully gone, never fully settled. Just trying to belong in both places at once.

As we prepare to spend this next chapter in the UK, the feelings of loss are slowly starting to creep in. Even though my wife and I are consciously deciding to move, the feeling of starting over, of walking away from what’s familiar, still hits just as hard.

But this time, we’re not just chasing opportunity or adventure. We’re moving because staying has become increasingly dangerous for our daughter. The political climate in the U.S. has grown more hostile, especially for transgender kids and the families who support them. Amanda and I could probably stay and be fine. But as parents, fine isn’t the bar. When my daughter, because she is trans, has been reduced to a problem to be eradicated or a monster to be destroyed, there is that moment when what-ifs give way to what must be done. So we’re not just choosing a new country—we’re choosing safety. Choosing survival.

As I have written in other essays, I fell in love with Wrexham AFC from the TV show "Welcome to Wrexham.” After the first few seasons, they changed the opening theme to a new song. The first time I heard this song, a lump mysteriously appeared in my throat. It’s called Don’t Forget.

Sometimes you gotta do it your own way just to find
That every road you roam will one day lead to home.

That’s exactly what we’re doing. We’re carving our own way, leaving behind one home to build another, all while realizing that, as cliché as it is, home is where the heart is. I’ve had to learn this from a young age. It wasn’t easy, and I’ve had to work through it, but it’s my truth now. Home isn’t a building—it’s wherever the people I love are.

I used to think the hardest part of moving was the packing. But honestly, it’s the sorting that gets me. We sort through stuff not just through time and emotion but through old versions of ourselves, safely stored away in drawers and closets. Those things that you never ever think about, but you would never think of getting rid of. My CD collection (though I haven’t listened to one in ages, I don’t even own a CD player anymore); the kids’ Montessori map tracings, defiantly spelling Brazil with an S.; hundreds upon hundreds of pictures—capturing specific moments from years ago that feel like yesterday. What do you do with those things?

The song continues:

So raise a glass high in the air
For all the ones we wish were here
We hold in our hearts forever
’Cause summers pass and seasons change
Only time can’t be replaced
The moments we had together

This time, it’s not just the location that’s changing—it’s the shape of our family. Amanda, Ivy, and I are heading to the UK. Zain, Asher, and Atticus, all with their partners, will stay here in the U.S. For the first time, we’ll be living apart, stretched across continents. For our entire life as a family, it has always been the kids that have left—now it is us that are leaving. That changes the dynamic into something new, something that will take some time to adapt to. But there will be times when we will all be together. I have to remind myself that separation isn’t the end of connection. That leaving doesn’t mean losing.

The chorus of the song:

Don't forget where you came from
Don't forget what you're made of
The ones who were there
When no one else would care
Don't be afraid to cry now
Even when the world comes crashing in
Don't forget to sing when you win

And this is usually where I lose it. And I’m not afraid to cry.

This is the reminder I need. “Don’t forget to sing when you win"—even when your world is crashing around you (as the US is currently doing). I need to claim happiness every single time I am able.

Florida will always be home—our roots are there. This is where I have lived the longest (27 years). And this move isn’t about finding a new home. It’s about creating a place where our daughter can thrive. A place where we can breathe a little easier. We’re not leaving home behind.

We’re building on it.

I’ve thrown away whole versions of my life before, sometimes out of necessity, sometimes just to survive the next move. Now, older and wiser, I don’t want to arrive in a new country as someone starting over—I want to arrive as someone continuing.

It’s still hard. But at least now, I know why.