It’s been more than two years since I moved to Singapore, but I still can’t call it home. That might sound odd, especially since I’ve spent nearly two decades of my life outside of Australia, my home country, roaming different cities and continents. You’d think that after so much time abroad—sometimes coming back only fleetingly to see my family—I’d eventually shake off that notion of “home.” But the opposite has happened. Paradoxically, the more I’ve lived outside of Australia, the more fiercely I cling to my Australian identity.
I never expected this. When I first left Australia 19 years ago, I told myself I was just going on a grand adventure. I’d return soon enough, maybe wiser, maybe more worldly, but otherwise unchanged. Yet each new country I settled in left a subtle mark. I picked up local phrases, learned to eat at odd hours or navigate unfamiliar streets, even adapted my morning rituals to local customs. And with every move, I assumed I’d be less tied to the place I grew up. Instead, every year away made me realize how intensely Australian I still am, and how deeply my homeland shapes who I am.
Fast forward to now, in Singapore. I moved here just over two years ago, hoping to create a solid hub for my business and my life. Because Singapore is an undisputed travel nexus, from which it’s easy to hop to Thailand, Vietnam, or back home to Australia in just a few hours, it seemed ideal. Everything here is organized, the infrastructure is top-notch, the airport is second to none. My business operates smoothly, and I can dash away for a weekend in Bangkok or Ho Chi Minh City without a second thought. On paper, Singapore is perfect for me.
And in many ways, it truly is. Living in Singapore has given me logistical freedom I wouldn’t find in most other places. Getting to Asia’s hotspots is a breeze, and let’s face it, Singapore’s quality of life is famously high. The first time you experience that immaculate Changi Airport efficiency, or the immaculate sidewalks and hawker centers, you can’t help but be impressed. Street food is cheap and delicious, the city is safe, and the well-connected public transport can take you nearly anywhere on the island in minutes. It’s hard to complain, and yet, there’s a persistent sense of being a long-term guest rather than a resident.
Perhaps that feeling comes from a deeper place. I’m Australian through and through. I’ve got a Land Rover Defender back in Cairns, where my parents live, so that whenever I visit, I can roam those wide-open roads and explore the wilderness that still takes my breath away. In Singapore, cars are prohibitively expensive, and the roads far more orderly. The sense of wide, unrestrained space that I associate with Australia doesn’t exist here. Singapore’s an island city-state—tightly packed skyscrapers, manicured nature parks, and a distinctly urban rhythm. There’s no vast outback to conquer, no sense of infinite horizon when you look out to sea.
I sometimes catch myself daydreaming about Australian roads—miles of open highway with barely another soul in sight, the faint smell of eucalyptus on the breeze, that warm gust of wind that only truly feels like home when you’re on the continent. I love that I can jump in my Defender and drive for hours in near solitude, maybe only stopping for a meat pie at a roadside bakery, or simply pulling over to watch the roos at sunset. That raw, open space is so much a part of me. And no matter how many gleaming cityscapes I visit, none replicate that feeling.
In Singapore, life is extremely convenient. You rarely need a car. Taxis, ride-hailing apps, and the efficient MRT can whisk you anywhere in record time. It’s a godsend on a day-to-day basis. But for someone who associates “freedom” with the roar of an engine on an empty dirt track, it’s just not the same. Add to that the humidity and the constant churn of city life, and I start longing for the crisp, dry air of an Australian winter morning.
There’s also the culture factor. Australians have our own brand of humor—playful, irreverent, sometimes sarcastic—and that’s how we communicate with each other. In Singapore, people are generally more reserved. Conversations often tilt toward practicality—“Have you eaten?” or “Where are you headed?” And while I appreciate the sincerity of these daily interactions, I sometimes miss the easy banter, the teasing between mates that’s second nature where I’m from. If I try that style of humor here, it can fall flat, misunderstood, or just politely ignored.
Living in Singapore also highlights how much I crave the familiar rhythms of Australian sport. Australian Rules Football, for example, is one of those cultural bedrocks that I never realized was so important to me until I lived somewhere that doesn’t share it. Sure, there’s a small Aussie expat community here that gathers for big games, but it’s not the same as walking into a pub full of fans wearing the team colors, cheering till their voices crack. Without that communal surge of energy, I feel more like a spectator than a participant.
Oddly enough, the very advantage that drew me to Singapore—its prime location—also underscores my sense of displacement. Because it’s so easy to travel to Vietnam, Thailand, or Australia from here, I’m often on the road. A part of me loves the transience, the ability to operate my business from multiple points in Asia. But being in constant transit also means I never fully settle, never fully treat Singapore as a place to set down deep roots. My apartment here is comfortable, yet it doesn’t hold the same gravitational pull as “home.” It’s more like a well-equipped station on a continuous journey.
When I occasionally touch down in Australia—whether for holidays, to visit my parents in Cairns, or just to go on a spontaneous Land Rover adventure—I’m reminded of how strong that connection truly is. The moment I land, I feel the air shift, see the wide sky, catch a snippet of Aussie accent floating down the airport corridor, and think: This is real home. There’s a warmth in these small encounters, the subtle signals of a shared culture. Even the slang that I used to take for granted feels like wrapping myself in a comfortable blanket.
That said, I recognize that I’ve changed over these 19 years. There’s a certain irony in how living abroad has amplified my Australian identity while also making me a global nomad. I can adapt quickly to new places, new cuisines, new people. I find it thrilling to step off a plane in Bangkok or Ho Chi Minh City, to wander down the street and sample a stall I’ve never tried before. I relish the constant novelty of discovering pockets of Asia I’d never see if I lived solely in Australia. That’s the real gift of living in Singapore—it sets me right in the middle of so many alluring destinations.
But that gift comes at a price: a constantly divided sense of self. I catch glimpses of Singaporeans who have lived here all their lives, watched the city evolve, maybe traveled abroad for study or leisure but always circled back to this island as their true anchor. By contrast, I feel like someone at a port with a half-packed suitcase, always ready to move, never fully belonging. While Singapore is undeniably modern, vibrant, and full of opportunities, I remain an observer, not quite integrated.
I suspect many expats worldwide share this feeling. We love the novelty and excitement that come with living abroad. We love that we can slip into new cultures, learn new languages, or glean new perspectives. But we also miss the intangible comfort of our homeland—the intangible sense of belonging that no foreign city can replicate. It’s not about rejecting our new country; it’s about recognizing that certain ties run so deep, they can’t be replaced by convenience or even enjoyment.
I don’t say this to diminish Singapore. In fact, I’m incredibly grateful to be here. My daily life is comfortable, my work thrives, and I rarely worry about things like safety or chaos in the streets. On the contrary, Singapore’s meticulous order can be a relief. Hawker centers serve up some of the most delicious multicultural cuisine for a few dollars a plate, and the city’s cleanliness puts most places to shame. If I had to choose a central base in Southeast Asia, I doubt I’d pick anywhere else.
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Still, the truth remains: after two years, I can’t bring myself to call Singapore home. And that’s okay. Perhaps it’s a testament to the fact that “home” is less about the convenience of daily life and more about where your deepest emotional roots lie. For me, that’s still the Australian bush, the sprawling coastline, the distinctive cadence of an Aussie accent that instantly makes me feel understood. It’s my parents in Cairns, my Land Rover waiting for the next off-road journey, the footy games I try to watch online at awkward hours.
When I speak to fellow Australians in Singapore, we often swap stories about “back home”—the places we grew up, the pies we crave, the beaches we miss, the lingo our Singaporean colleagues don’t quite get. It’s a gentle reminder that we all carry a piece of Australia with us wherever we go. There’s an odd comfort in that shared longing, as if we’re connected by invisible threads to a place that’s thousands of kilometers away.
Maybe in another year, if I stay longer, I’ll find reasons to call Singapore home. Maybe I’ll discover a local sports scene that resonates, or build friendships that anchor me more deeply here. But for now, I’m embracing the in-between state. I enjoy the best of Singapore—the travel hub, the safety, the lively food culture—while acknowledging that part of me will always be scanning the horizon for that next flight back to Australia.
I like to think of it this way: some people have a single home that holds their entire heart, while others have multiple coordinates on the map that each claim a piece of who they are. I’m one of the latter. Australia is my emotional core, the place that built my character, taught me how to laugh loudly and not take life too seriously. Singapore is my professional base, an efficient springboard into Southeast Asia’s endless wonders. And that’s not a contradiction—it’s just the layered reality of modern life.
Perhaps the real contradiction is that living abroad for so long has made me more Australian than ever. I’m more vocal about our quirks, our sports, our slang, our wide-open spaces, precisely because I can’t take them for granted. My identity feels sharper at a distance, each small nuance more precious because it’s no longer the norm. Even the things that used to annoy me about Australia seem endearing now, like the over-familiarity of neighbors or the unpredictability of the weather.
In the end, I’ve come to accept that “home” isn’t an either-or proposition. I don’t have to label Singapore as “home” just because I live here. Nor do I have to pretend Australia is the only place I’d ever consider settling. Life’s more nuanced. The reason I can’t call Singapore home is personal—it’s about history, roots, and that intangible sense of belonging that can’t be forced. It may change in the future, or it may not. But for now, Singapore remains my strategic base, my comfortable vantage point for exploring the world, while Australia keeps my heart.
And if you ever find me gazing out my apartment window in Singapore, imagining the dusty tracks of the Australian outback or the roar of the crowd at the MCG, don’t think I’m unhappy here. I’m just reminding myself that while you can live comfortably in many places, only one place can cradle that feeling of home from birth. For me, that’s the land of gum trees and footy, of a Land Rover waiting in Cairns, and family whose accents match my own. Two years in, I haven’t stopped missing it. And, honestly, I’m okay with that. It’s what keeps me anchored.
If you want to learn more about my perspective on Singapore, check out the video below, created late last year.
