One of the quiet conundrums I carried in my time as a missionary in PNG was this: why is it that so much is expected of us, in terms of cultural sensitivity and adaptation, while almost nothing is asked in return?
I don’t mean that harshly. It’s just… something I noticed. Again and again.
We were trained to bend, to soften, to listen carefully, to hold our tongues when things felt off-kilter. We were taught new languages, both spoken and not. We were taught to treat every cultural difference with reverence, to assume goodwill, to hold space for what we didn’t yet understand.
But I rarely, if ever, saw that same posture mirrored back toward us.
There seemed to be no collective curiosity about our culture—no sense that our ways might also be different and worthy of understanding. It often felt like the flow of effort and empathy was a one-way stream, and that to speak up about the toll this took would somehow make me unkind.
So instead, we shut down.
Not from superiority. Not from spite. From fatigue. From the effort of constantly treading gently, constantly translating ourselves, constantly shrinking in the name of peace and conformity.
I saw it in others too. In the shoulders drawn tight. In the careful pauses before someone responded. In the practiced neutral tone. We weren’t being false; we were just being careful. Careful not to offend. Careful not to be misunderstood. Careful to fit in—if not in heart, then at least in silence.
And yet, when we were surprised or jarred by something, we’d often whisper to each other, “It’s okay. Every culture is different. This wasn’t personal.”
We made space. We stretched wide.
But there was another layer to my silence, one I didn’t always know how to name. I was not just an expat trying to fit in—I was a young, single, white woman in a place where that trifecta was impossibly conspicuous.
I felt watched. Not always unkindly, but constantly. And sometimes, dangerously.
There were many days I simply couldn’t go out. Not without risk. Not without dread curling in my belly. There were roads I couldn’t drive, markets I couldn’t enter, places I couldn’t be alone. I learned to scan every street, every pair of eyes. I learned to disappear in plain sight. To hide.
It was too dangerous to be out.
Too dangerous to be me.
The only one of my kind in the wild.
And yet, I was still expected to be warm, open, adaptable. To engage, to explain myself, to never show discomfort. But so often, the cost of simply existing in that place was already more than I could say aloud.
So I became smaller. Quieter. I folded myself inwards. I dressed in plain clothes and gentle tones. I deflected attention. I kept my stories close to my chest. I let others speak first. I practiced invisibility.
And still—I loved. I served. I laughed with local women in smoky huts. I sang in church aisles. I listened to stories that broke my heart and mended it again. But I often felt like a ghost version of myself—present, but not fully seen. Tolerated – yes, respected – perhaps, but definitely not understood.
I don’t blame individuals. Many were kind, and some were curious in quiet, tender ways. But as a whole, I think PNG as a nation—a young, mono-cultural one still learning to hold difference without suspicion—has not yet had to ask these questions. Has not yet been called to look outward with the same empathy we were trained to bring inward.
And I wonder if, perhaps, that mutual curiosity could be the beginning of something sacred.
Because I truly believe there’s untapped potential here—relationally, spiritually, economically—for growth that could come through understanding. If people in PNG took the time to truly see and know their international friends, especially those who quietly fold themselves to fit, I think there’d be more cohesion. More grace. More beautiful partnership.
And maybe—just maybe—fewer women like me, carrying their full selves in silence, waiting for someone to ask, “What is it like for you here?”
Girl Kaleidoscope 
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