When I first moved to the UK, every outing felt like a doorway to something new. I said yes to almost every invitation, eager to learn, to belong. So when I got invited to my first party, I pictured a big meal, laughter around a table—the kind of gathering I’d known all my life.
The Early Culture Clash
At my very first UK party, I went in expecting a proper sit-down meal and maybe a familiar soft drink. Growing up in Ghana, I had come to expect jollof rice and an ice-cold Fanta at every party—it was almost the definition of celebration. So I dressed the way I’d always known: in my best outfit, ready for a feast and a long evening of food and music.
Instead, I walked into a room where guests were casually dressed, helping themselves to quiches and cold cuts—and not a single bottle of Fanta in sight. I’d arrived ready to dine and linger at a table, but this was a very different kind of “party.” Confused and still hungry, I made polite conversation, then went home and ate a “proper” meal.
That night taught me something I hadn’t considered: I had underestimated the culture I’d stepped into. Nothing had prepared me for a gathering that felt so foreign, and for the quiet tug it would create inside me.
Living Between Worlds
As a child, I often wondered why my parents mostly socialised with other Ghanaians, sometimes other Africans. Now I get it.
Growing up here meant learning to move between different worlds. One moment I’d be at a party where finger foods were the norm. The next, I’d be in a hall filled with home-cooked dishes and highlife music. With every shift, I had to decide which version of me to bring forward.
It’s a habit that still slips out. Not long ago, I was on a TikTok Live speaking Ashanti Twi when someone from another African country joined and asked what we were talking about. Without thinking, I switched to English—and even my accent changed. Someone on the live laughed and pointed it out. I laughed too, but it stayed with me.
Because it’s not only language. It’s how I adjust my whole self to match different spaces. And I’ve started asking myself what all these little switches have cost me. Somewhere along the line, pieces of my authentic self got buried under the need to survive and belong.
The Identity Tug of War
Over lunch one day, I was venting to a friend about something weighing on me. After listening, they said, “You need to embrace the British way of life more.”
The words landed heavy. What exactly did that mean? I spoke the language, ate the food, mixed in diverse groups. I was even softening parts of my Africanness to fit in—and it still wasn’t enough.
That was a turning point. Diversity, I realised, isn’t just about race, religion or sexuality. True diversity is mutual respect. And respect is not one-way.
For a while, I pulled back. I stopped trying so hard to fit in. Wearing different identities every day was draining my mental health and sense of self. Those years of switching and blending taught me resilience, but they also taught me that strength without self-acceptance can quietly hollow you out.
Choosing Myself
Slowly, I started to build a different way of being.
In 2012, I was selected for a survey with the Office for National Statistics. The man interviewing me said something simple that stayed with me: “You’re British, but not English.” I wasn’t offended; I felt understood.
I am African. Not just African, but Ghanaian. From the Eastern Region. Akan. Akyim. My identity isn’t something to erase—it’s something to own.
Since then, I’ve learned to show up as myself. My accent may give away where I live, but my music, my food, and even how I celebrate with others will always carry my origin. I no longer shrink my Africanness to make anyone comfortable.
A Wider Reflection
Many immigrants and first-generation children know this dance of belonging: translating for parents at school, code-switching at work, being told to “just fit in.” Sometimes even a lively hand gesture or the aroma of our food is misunderstood.
But identity isn’t fixed. It’s a living, layered story.
So I ask you:
Which parts of yourself have you hidden or lost to feel accepted?
How are you reclaiming them?
If you’re reclaiming parts of your identity, know that you’re not doing it alone. This space is here to hold those stories and to remind each other that wholeness is possible. Share your reflections in the comments or reach out through my contact page.
This is what Change Through Shared Experiences is about—growing stronger by telling our stories, seeing ourselves in one another, and choosing ourselves, layer by layer.
And if you’d like a gentle guide to help you choose yourself again, download my free ebook of journaling prompts.
Koya Nkrumah 