This September marks 10 years since my father died and I left not only Florida, but the United States. Leaving the country was difficult, but now I am experiencing a new kind of pain: losing my connection to the United States.

My relationships with my friends, my family, and my hometown have changed, but so has my relationship with myself. It is not a feeling of wanting to return home, but of realizing that my house continues without me.

I moved abroad at 21

I packed my bags at age 21 to move to Cameroon and serve two years in the Peace Corps. I then spent four years in Costa Rica, one year traveling, two in Belgium and, most recently, another year traveling the world.

Over the decade, I have spent no more than a few weeks in the United States each year. What started as fulfilling a work contract and wanting to explore the world turned into a fear of no longer fitting into the culture of the country in which I was born.

After returning to the United States after living abroad for only three years, I remember my cousin making fun of me for not knowing any of the songs on the radio or the slang it used. After 10 consecutive years abroad, that lack of easy social “entry” has become more pronounced.

Coming home feels strange

Last month, as I drove from the airport to my mother’s house, a place where I had lived as a teenager, I felt lost. I didn’t recognize the new construction until I was a few miles from his street.

Her neighborhood had new buildings, she had changed the art in my old bedroom, and she didn’t tell me she had ended her five-year relationship months earlier. I know I had no reason to be consulted about any of these decisions, but I felt my absence. I feel like a visitor in my hometown.

I have changed too. When I show my Italian boyfriend all the American foods I used to eat, I realize they have additives that I don’t eat anymore. I’ve learned to love my leisurely hour-long lunches and have noticed that my family often eats prepared food while they work. While we seem to be a more cohesive unit at dinner, the conversation still revolves around work and I can always hear each other’s phone alerts.

My family was surprised that when I made cookies, they didn’t come from a ready-made mix and that I spent hours on Sundays preparing lunch; They were equally happy with a cold sandwich.

It’s getting harder and harder to connect with friends and family in the US.

I understand very few pop culture references and am increasingly unable to explain American idioms to my partner. I can tell you about the coffee styles of Vietnam or the cycling culture of Ghent, but I don’t know anything about soccer or the Grammys. Sometimes I laugh at a reference I don’t understand or change the way I talk about my interests so I don’t seem too different.

My childhood friends are married with children and politely decline invitations to visit me in another country. Most of us lose some friends as we get older, but I often feel like it’s because I moved out of the country, and if I want to connect with them, I need to fly home and make my life a little easier to understand.

Many family members center their lives around their jobs and homes; I haven’t even had a car. I am also the only cousin in my family who has not married or had children. I’m proud to have been to over 50 countries and thrived in so many new environments, but I often feel like my life experiences don’t translate into conversation.

For me, the core experiences (like the frustration of learning Italian and speaking Spanish while talking to my in-laws, or the joy I get from finding the same rare flower in different countries) are much more important than what I do at work, but that’s often the first thing people ask.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger, even with my family.

When friends from other countries ask me if what they see in movies or on the news is what America is really like, I find myself saying, “I’m not sure.” I feel like my nationality is clear when I’m outside the US, from my high consumption of peanut butter to my feelings about customer service to my rare requests for ice in my water. But in the field I feel like an imposter.

I knew this feeling of being an outsider would come one day, but I didn’t expect it to hit me as I walked down the street and talked to my family. As I became another person, the country I left was becoming something else as well.