When I first arrived in Taiwan, I told myself to be brave.
I had prepared sample lesson plans, packed familiar snacks from home, and memorized a few survival Mandarin phrases. But nothing could really prepare me for the feeling of stepping into a place where everything — the people, the systems, the unspoken rules — felt unfamiliar.
For the first few weeks, I moved through Chiayi County in Taiwan like a guest who didn’t know the house rules. Even something as simple as throwing away trash became stressful. I didn’t understand the garbage truck schedule. I remember standing by the window of my apartment one evening, confused by distant music playing from the street. Was that the truck? Was I too late? Too early? I held my trash bag like it was a timed exam I hadn’t studied for. When I finally ran downstairs one night and realized I had missed it, I felt strangely defeated.
It’s funny, isn't it? How something as simple as garbage can become a symbol of foreignness, of a barrier that feels impossible to cross. The feeling of standing at the edge of a culture I didn’t yet understand made me question my place here. How could I belong to a place when I couldn’t even throw out my trash correctly?
The language barrier was the hardest wall. In the classroom, I was confident — English was my space. But outside school, I became small. Ordering dinner felt like a performance. I would stand in line with my phone in my hand, typing nervous sentences into Google Translate, rehearsing the pronunciation as if I were about to step onto a stage. When it was finally my turn, the sounds around me seemed louder — sizzling pans, fast conversations, the sharp beep of the register — and I would quickly hold up my screen, hoping I had typed the right words. Sometimes the staff would smile and nod, and sometimes we both laughed at the translation. It was almost funny to think that I spent my mornings confidently teaching in front of a class, yet in a convenience store I felt like a shy student again, afraid of mispronouncing a single word.
Perhaps that is what it means to live in between languages — to feel strong in one space and fragile in another.
At my school, I was introduced as “the Bilingual Program teacher.” The title sounded important, but I kind of felt unsure inside. However, I felt a sense of relief knowing that the students were incredibly polite — more polite than I expected. They stood to greet me. They bowed slightly. They listened carefully. But when I asked questions in English, many of them hesitated and the room grew quiet.
Not resistant. Not unwilling. Just quiet.
At first, the silence made me nervous. In my home country, the Philippines, silence in a classroom could mean boredom or confusion. Here, I wasn’t sure what it meant. Were they afraid of making mistakes? Were they unsure of my accent? Or were they simply being cautious, as students often are in a language that is not their own?
I began to realize that their silence wasn’t emptiness. It was effort. It was translation happening behind their eyes. It was bravery waiting for the right moment.
Then, one afternoon, a few students approached me after class. With cautious but eager English, they asked me simple questions:
“Teacher,” she began, her voice careful but determined, “will you teach us for a long time?”
Another added, “Teacher, where are you from?”
Their sentences were simple, their grammar not perfect — but their courage was.
Their eyes were bright, almost hopeful. They weren’t just practicing English. They were reaching out.
That small courage on their part sparked something in me.
They were not evaluating me. They were not measuring my differences. They were curious. Excited. Welcoming in their own quiet way.
I answered their questions slowly, encouraging them to ask more. We laughed over small misunderstandings. They searched for words; I waited patiently. The conversation lasted only a few minutes, but it felt significant — like the first crack in a wall I didn’t realize I had built.
We were meeting each other across languages — their English growing, my Mandarin just beginning.
Still, belonging outside the classroom felt distant. I often went to 7-Eleven to buy food or pick up packages I ordered online. Every visit felt like a mini language test. I would rehearse what to say in my head before approaching the counter. Sometimes I stumbled over my words. Sometimes I panicked and pointed. I felt embarrassed more often than I’d like to admit.
But the staff were always patient. No one laughed unkindly. No one rushed me away.
Slowly, those trips to the convenience store — a routine I had once dreaded — became a part of my daily rhythm. I was learning how to live here. And living, as it turns out, doesn’t require perfection. It requires persistence. It requires patience.
One of the greatest gifts during these first few months has been the people around me. The co-teacher who sits beside me treated me not just like a coworker, but like family. She helps me with directions when I look lost. She recommends places to visit and good food to try. She teaches me useful Chinese phrases for daily life, repeating them gently when I forget the tones. In many ways, she has been like a mother to me here.
Also, I would never forget Sabrina, my coordinator from Teach Taiwan who greeted me with a warm smile and helped me in many ways. Through her, I began to understand that belonging here wasn’t just about fitting in, but about letting others help you along the way.
Another colleague, Muffy, always makes sure that I don’t feel alone — she gives me one on one Mandarin lessons or more likely “Mandarin tea time”, as we'd like to call it. Her lessons weren’t just about words — they were about making me feel comfortable enough to try, to laugh at myself when I made mistakes, and to realize that being imperfect was part of the process. 
Then there was Charlotte who interviewed me for this job. During the application process, I hoped she was as kind as she seemed. After I arrived, I discovered she was even kinder. She invited me to her home for hotpot. I remember feeling nervous — worried about cultural etiquette, about overstaying, about doing something wrong. But when I sat at her table, sharing steaming broth and laughter, those fears slowly disappeared.
Her mother was there too, welcoming me warmly and treating me like her own. That night, surrounded by food and gentle conversation, I realized something important:
I wasn’t just an employee anymore. At least, that’s how it started to feel. First, I was a guest. And slowly — without anyone announcing it — I became something more.
My colleagues and I continued to share moments like that — quiet conversations over lunch, moments of laughter over mispronounced words, stories about our lives that transcended language barriers. The dean and principal were both approachable and kind, which made it easier for me to ask questions, express concerns, and feel supported. No one has made me feel like a burden for asking questions. Instead, they answer patiently, guide me quietly, and celebrate small successes with me.
Then one day, I thought to myself — belonging doesn’t arrive in one dramatic moment. It is not a single event where everything suddenly feels comfortable.
It happens in small, almost forgettable ways — like when students start greeting you in the hallway without hesitation.
Or when you finally recognize the garbage truck melody and don’t panic anymore.
Or when you no longer feel anxious every time you step into 7-Eleven.
Or when you start recommending Taiwanese food to your own friends back home.
I’ve only been in Taiwan for a few months, but it feels like so much longer.
And yet, somehow, Chiayi — this county that once felt so foreign — has begun to feel less like a place I moved to — and more like a place I am living in. Not in a grand, sweeping moment, but in the quiet, daily interactions that make you feel like you belong.
More importantly, I no longer introduce myself in my head as “the outsider.”
I am a teacher at one of the leading schools in Chiayi.
I am a colleague.
I am someone who has people to eat hotpot with.
I arrived in Taiwan carrying my suitcase and my assumptions.
I want to stay longer because, slowly and gently, Taiwan made space for me — not just as a foreigner, but as a teacher, a colleague, a friend.
Chiayi did not become home overnight.
But piece by piece, conversation by conversation, kindness by kindness, it is slowly becoming one. It is through the connection that is built in shared meals, in awkward conversations, in laughter over mispronounced words.
It is built when you allow yourself to be changed by where you are.
And perhaps that is what belonging truly is — not a sudden arrival, but a quiet accumulation of moments that gently tell you:
You are welcome here.
I am Lorraine Mae Albuera, a Filipino English teacher in Chiayi County, Taiwan — and thanks to the people here, I finally feel like I belong.
