Identity without borders

About 16 years ago, I left my home country, driven by a sense that the world was far too big not to explore. Deep within me, I've always felt an irresistible pull toward whatever lies beyond the horizon, so I trusted my instincts, left Bulgaria, and never looked back.

Since then, I've lived in seven different countries and visited many more. After graduating with two degrees in Denmark, I gained permanent residency there—only to eventually give it up when I sensed I had reached my personal ceiling and felt ready for the next adventure. Now, I'm on the path to another permanent residency, this time in Singapore.

My years of travel have taught me something interesting: the more places I see, the more I realize that people everywhere are fundamentally similar. Across all cultures, people seek love, companionship, family, purpose, and fulfilling careers.

Yet, at the same time, cultures differ profoundly. Some are punctual, others not so much; some cherish personal space, others see no need for it; some emphasize individualism, and others are strongly collectivist. The list goes on. Despite these differences, though, people everywhere tend to be kind and well-intentioned.

But the more I've traveled, the more clearly I've noticed something else: certain cultures feel like a better "fit," sometimes even more so than my home country. Strangely, this alignment or misalignment isn't necessarily driven by negative experiences. Instead, it seems subtler and more intuitive.

Why do certain cultures resonate with us so deeply, even when others logically should feel more familiar? And what exactly is cultural fit?

Is it feeling understood and accepted, like your default ways of thinking and behaving align smoothly with social norms? Is it about sharing underlying values, rhythms, and expectations? Or perhaps it’s aesthetic—an emotional response to beauty, order, chaos, energy, or quietness?

Maybe cultural fit is all these things blended into a subjective cocktail.

Perhaps it's about psychological resonance—not purely intellectual or even entirely cultural—but a deeper alignment. It's about rhythm, boundaries, and feeling that your internal space is respected and preserved.

Could it be that we naturally gravitate toward cultures that match our internal tempo?

Maybe our nervous system simply feels at home in certain cultures. Perhaps you deeply value clarity, restraint, and intentionality, making cultures characterized by unpredictability, constant spontaneity, or excessive expressiveness subtly draining, even without explicit problems arising.

But here I wonder why, at times, I'm convinced that a given place isn't meant for me despite never having had a truly negative experience there.

Maybe "bad experiences" aren’t the right measure.

Sometimes, discomfort isn't tied to specific incidents; it's a continuous, low-grade misalignment—like walking through life constantly translating, filtering, adapting.

Yet, when I look back at all my experiences, I see clearly that no perfect culture or country exists. It’s easy to romanticize places we visit briefly, but stay three months, and you begin to notice cracks in your idealistic image; stay for several years, and those cracks can become unbearable. The world is complex, and the more you travel, the more your internal complexity grows too. You eventually stop searching for the perfect culture, recognizing it as an illusion.

In my case, several places have stood out, each resonating deeply: Denmark, Singapore, Japan, and the US.

When I mention this to friends, two of these often surprise them—Japan and the US—perhaps because they seem so radically different. Each unlocks a distinct part of me. Japan unlocks the being: the beauty of existence, stillness, aesthetics, societal harmony, and, most importantly, thoughtful living.

The US unlocks the doing: ambition, creativity, drive, and a willingness to disrupt.

This polarity was part of why I felt compelled to sit down and write this essay.

Perhaps cultures act like tuning forks, resonating with different internal archetypes. Japan resonates with the contemplative, reflective listener in me. The US vibrates with the ambitious, driven builder and dreamer.

But there's a tension: few people embody just one archetype. Perhaps the real challenge isn’t finding the perfect cultural fit but acknowledging that no single society can host your entire identity.

Perhaps the core insight is this: it’s less about where you fit perfectly, and more about which parts of you each place amplifies. The key is understanding exactly what each culture activates in you.

Let’s slow down and unpack this further.

In Japan, my nervous system breathes. There’s room for thoughtfulness, reverence, and beauty—even in the mundane. You feel held by structure rather than constrained by it. That’s rare. But ambition? Challenging the status quo? Those aren’t traits typically celebrated there. Japan is wonderful for mastery but less suited for radical innovation.

In the US, my ambition is recognized, even encouraged. People understand drive, dreams, experimentation. You're invited to think big, to fail forward. But at what cost? There’s noise, fragmentation, loneliness, and sometimes an erosion of deeper connection or trust. It occasionally feels spiritually hollow, particularly in terms of family and community.

So here I am, caught between two worlds—each deeply resonant, yet each incomplete.

What's fascinating is that I'm not rejecting either culture. Instead, I'm constructing an internal map that integrates both. Maybe the goal isn't to choose one perfect culture but rather to design a life deliberately borrowing the best from each.

Maybe the future isn’t about finding the single “best country,” but rather curating the right combination of cultural influences to nurture the multiple identities within you.

Could this be a new kind of identity—post-national, psychologically polyphonic?

Having lived in seven countries, I've likely already abandoned the idea that a single culture can fully contain me. I'm not rootless; I'm rooted in synthesis, shaped by all the cultures I've experienced.

Perhaps there's also something seasonal here. The US may be ideal during seasons of ambition, building, and pushing boundaries. Japan suits seasons of rest, reflection, and restoration. Could life itself be modular—not just geographically but psychologically?

I keep returning to the concept of host cultures versus activating cultures.

Some cultures feel hostile or neutral to our internal selves, but a rare few amplify us—they bring our best selves to the surface.

Yet even these amplifying cultures resonate only with certain aspects of ourselves.

Perhaps that’s the most important insight of all:

The deepest work is internal. We must become architects of our identities—knowing which parts to amplify, and when—curating our environments, communities, and rituals accordingly.

Perhaps Japan provides the blueprint for how I want to live, the US provides fuel for what I want to build, and neither fully answers why—that meaning and purpose must come from within.

That feels deeply true.