Attending university abroad was never really on my radar. Although I planned to travel on my own, that was a prospect shrouded in a far-off version of who I could someday be. What felt closer as I was applying to colleges was remaining in the States – where I’m from – prioritising the outdoors and rooting myself on familiar soil.  Yet, I soon accepted a random offer for a random application to a random Irish university and realised my winds had changed. Even then, I only gained awareness of my decision in the turbulent backseat of a Dublin Taxi, winding through cobbled streets that I now can’t believe were once foreign. 

Despite my trepidation at moving so far from home, any  ‘culture shock’ I had expected was minimal. That first year, most grievances were softened by great company in the warmth of Mother Reilly’s. Amidst the frenzy of laughter, music and shockingly little university, an alien, surprising feeling lurked: that of coming home.

Reverse culture shock, similar to its original cousin, strikes upon the absence of predictability and familiarity in one’s geographical or cultural location (or so my reliable sources, U.S. Department of State and Reddit, tell me). Scientific-ish definitions can be found across the web, most entailing some linear u-shaped process in which you too can self-diagnose yourself as afflicted with cultural disorientation. The shock of returning home entails grappling with multi-faceted change; change of oneself and change of one’s home, especially after having adapted into an entirely new cultural setting. 

I have felt a plethora of shocks every time I return to my home country, consistently having to readapt to a society I am no longer desensitised to. With practice, I now expect to readapt to tokens of American charm: inquisitive and friendly strangers, impractically large vehicles, colossal portions of creamy, cheesy, and greasy food enjoyed in your quintessential downtown diner. I similarly (with more gripes) readapt to American imperfections – non-existent public transport, rampant homelessness, and mental illness – issues that are no stranger to Irish society as well. During my most recent visit, the most draining aspect of coming home was the migraine-inducing media, most of which was political, slanderous and constant.

While I can imagine American reassimilation in any state is a feat, as a Nevadan I can only speak to one. The peculiarities of Nevada have played a role in my reverse culture shock, but mostly in a satirical, desensitised way. It wasn’t until this summer that I grasped the extent of the obscenity of the Nevadan way, bearing witness to a visiting Irish friend whose jaw dropped at our unconventional state.

Nevada has a few oddities. For instance, an economy propelled by legalised gambling and prostitution. From steakhouses to arcades, my childhood is no stranger to the casino (at least one guards every block). But my friend, the foreigner, was taken aback by the reality of the floor and the trance it cast upon gamblers. He was equally troubled by the recurring casual references to brothels and men’s clubs, though many locals flock to one joint’s bar solely for the best burger in town. Observing my friend’s disorientation encouraged me to allow myself grace; maybe Nevada isn’t the simplest place to readapt to. 

Even so, it was clear that my uncertainty in coming home stemmed more from the social conditions of my birthplace. I found myself returning with an infantile taste of freedom, a taste of a life I had chosen. Now, I stood in a place that was in my fibre; its curvature memorised, its every feature memorialized by nostalgia. It was not the biscuits n’ gravy, strip malls or gun violence that shocked me the most, but the pure familiarity of my ‘hometown’ and reminders of how I existed in it when it was just my ‘town.’ Associating with my past-self felt like associating with a life I didn’t know how to live.The shock of this rocked my core.  

Coping with readaptation fostered resistance and resentment towards my home. I was so overwhelmed by familiarity that I fell into a philosophy of self-centred angst. Suddenly, I overthought my sense of style, my confidence, my vocabulary. It was as if I felt that familiarity inevitably led to regression. My relationship with coming home began in a place of denial – denial of my home as being a place that grows with me. 

Now, I sit, clattering my keyboard in my neighbourhood coffee shop, where I clattered just like this many years ago. My shock has changed. I am no longer dissatisfied with stagnancy, nor do I underestimate my home’s ability for variation. My discomfort previously brought me scorn for my home, sitting with the conviction that my return represented an intermediate pause from the rest of my life. 

After many summers and winters spent within walls, streets, and shops entangled with my local story, I have had far too many opportunities to sulk in my discontent, that was so obviously never about my beautiful home. Especially now, having returned from study abroad (the ultimate test of culture shock tolerance) my hometown of Reno, Nevada is as fluid as ever. Due to beautiful friends who have settled where we were raised, I have been exposed to the many scenes that I am not a part of but so intrigued by. My past returns have been ripe with shock in forms of musical and artistic communities, as well as political and culinary opportunities. To come home is to plunge into a world that I am connected to by association, but involved in through passions. 

Simply, my reverse culture shock now, versus when I was gaining my bearings abroad, is comparable to grabbing coffee with an old friend. There are few things that strike as hard as the context you have with friends who have observed your evolution, both actively and from a distance. To be open to myself and my home changing simultaneously is not accepting defeat in two things that no longer correspond. Rather, it is an acceptance of friends who have grown in different, but complimentary ways; their roots undeniably intertwined by the same neon arches and flickering street lamps.  Photo by Amelia Rosevear