Don't Forget To Sing When You Win

We’re getting ready to move to the UK.

I’ve moved a dozen 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 it would get easier. 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 from the US or back again.

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 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—completely. Everything we had accumulated and built our lives with the last four years—furniture, daily-use items, the things that made up our routines—was packed up and put into storage. We were allowed whatever we could fit into a suitcase, and that was it. Starting from scratch might not seem like a big deal, especially knowing it was only for a year. But looking back, it was one of the hardest things I’ve 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 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.

Now, as we prepare to move to the UK, I can feel echoes of that same disorientation creeping 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 feels increasingly risky—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. There comes a 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.

There’s a song I’ve had on repeat lately—Don’t Forget. It’s the kind of soundtrack that sneaks up on you. Every time it plays, it opens something within me and reveals a deeply vulnerable part of myself. One line keeps circling in my head:

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

That idea—of forging ahead without knowing exactly where “home” is—feels like the story of my life. And now, it’s becoming the story of this move.

Looking ahead is exciting—but also intimidating. A new country. New systems. New jobs. New identity documents. It’s a lot. The difference this time is that we are making this decision as adults, for ourselves—but the weight of it? It’s just as heavy.

I used to think the hardest part of moving was the packing. But honestly, it’s the sorting that gets me. Not just sorting through stuff, but through time and emotion—through old versions of ourselves, through places we’ve already said goodbye to, through memories we’re scared we’ll lose if we let go of the things attached to them.

But Don’t Forget keeps echoing in my mind, especially this verse:

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. That reality is hard to sit with. I have to remind myself that separation isn’t the end of connection. That leaving doesn’t mean losing. And even when it feels like the world is crashing in—especially now, when everything in the U.S. feels volatile and uncertain—there’s still hope.

Don’t forget where you came from.
Don’t forget what you’re made of.
Don’t forget to sing, when you win.

We’re carrying all of that with us. Florida will always be home—our roots are there. But 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.