Choosing What Carries Forward: Motherhood and Cultural Identity

I was born in Australia.

Not migrated here, not brought over as a child, born here. This is the only country I’ve ever lived in. My schooling, my friendships, the beaches, the slang, the lifestyle; all of it shaped me. I sound Australian. I think Australian. I grew up Australian.

But inside our home, it was always more layered than that.

I am first-generation Malay, born to Malaysian parents, and growing up meant learning to exist between two worlds without really knowing that’s what I was doing at the time.

Every year we went back to Malaysia. And not in a “family holiday” kind of way, it was going back to where our grandparents were, where our aunties and uncles lived, where cousins felt like built-in best friends even if we only saw them once a year. The air felt different, heavier and warmer. The food tasted like comfort and history. The language wrapped around you constantly.

We were raised Muslim. The Five Pillars weren’t abstract concepts, they were lived. We fasted during Ramadan, even when it fell during school term and felt harder here. We celebrated Hari Raya with new outfits, open houses, envelopes pressed into our hands, and that feeling of community that’s hard to replicate anywhere else. Respect for elders wasn’t negotiable. Family came first. Always.

And yet, despite all of that, despite hearing Malay around us every year, despite our parents speaking it…my sisters and I never became fluent.

That’s something that sits with me now in a way it never did before.

Growing up surrounded mostly by Australians, I think I slowly learned to minimise the parts of me that felt “different.” Not because I was ashamed of being Malaysian or Muslim, but because when you’re young, belonging feels like survival. Fitting in feels easier than explaining yourself. So without consciously deciding to, I softened that side of myself. I leaned into the parts that blended seamlessly.

And now I’m a mother.

And suddenly, all of it feels louder.

Having my own children has made me realise how deeply I want them to know the Malaysian side of me. Not just as a fun fact about their heritage, but as something real and living inside them. I want them to understand that they are Malaysian too. That it isn’t distant or decorative, but that it’s theirs.

But here’s the part I struggle with.

Sometimes I feel like a bit of a phoney trying to teach it.

How do I confidently pass on a language I never properly learned? How do I instil cultural pride when I know there were years where I quietly chose comfort over leaning fully into it? I catch myself wishing I had asked more questions when I was younger. That I had pushed harder to become fluent. That I had embraced it more boldly instead of just comfortably.

Because now it feels like I’m rebuilding something that should have been solid all along.

There’s something very specific about being first generation and born here. I never felt like a migrant. But I also never felt completely detached from Malaysia either. It’s this constant in-between. Too Australian there, too Malaysian here and if you don’t actively nurture that second identity, it slowly fades into the background.

That’s what scares me most.

I don’t want my children (and one day their children) to barely recognise that part of themselves. I don’t want it reduced to “Oh yeah, somewhere along the line we’re Malaysian,” but instead, feel it, know it. To know why Ramadan matters and to understand why Hari Raya feels so special. To recognise the flavours of certain dishes and associate them with family, not just food.

So I’m starting small.

Cooking more Malaysian meals and actually explaining what they are and why they matter. Talking about family stories. Introducing Malay words into everyday conversation, even if my pronunciation isn’t perfect. Sharing photos from our trips growing up. Telling them about their grandparents and the way we were raised.

It feels imperfect and sometimes emotional. There’s a quiet grief in realising you didn’t hold onto something as tightly as you could have, but there’s also something empowering in deciding that it won’t end with you.

I look forward to taking my husband to Malaysia one day and showing him everything I love about it - the people, the noise, the warmth, the way community just exists without effort. I want my children to walk through those streets and feel connected, not like visitors and I want them to confidently say they are Malaysian and actually understand what that means.

Maybe I’m learning that being first generation doesn’t mean you have to have it all perfectly figured out. Maybe it just means you become the bridge. You choose what carries forward.

If you’re in that same in-between space, born here but carrying somewhere else inside you, maybe this is your reminder too. It’s not too late to relearn the language. It’s not too late to ask your parents the stories you never asked. It’s not too late to cook the recipes properly or celebrate more loudly.

Our children don’t need us to be perfect cultural ambassadors.

They just need us to care enough to try.