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I was born in Trondheim, a port on the Norwegian coast that has burned down and been rebuilt more times than anyone agrees on. The Vikings founded it. Fires took it. Oil engineering remade it in the 1970s. Growing up there, you absorb something before you can articulate it: Coordination structures don’t survive by staying the same. They survive by layering.
My childhood after Trondheim ran through Connecticut, Belgium, Italy, London, Boston, Berkeley, and San Francisco. My children were born in Brussels, London, and Boston. At 6, my daughter told a neighbor she was “half American, half Norwegian, and half Korean.” The arithmetic was wrong. The instinct was not. She had already worked out something I was still learning at 40: People don’t attach to abstract origins. They attach to the places where their lives actually happen.
Each move required relearning things nobody writes down. When directness is respect and when it is rudeness. Who you can disagree with in a meeting. What a long silence means. I got good at this. I thought the skill was adaptability. Research on cultural agility suggested something more specific, and it took me a long time to see what.
The skill has a name. Two psychologists, Verónica Benet-Martínez and Jana Haritatos, called it bicultural identity integration—the degree to which a person experiences their different cultural identities as compatible rather than in conflict. A related line of work on cultural frame-switching showed that biculturals shift between interpretive lenses in response to cultural cues without losing coherence. Researchers studying bilingual children find parallel gains in executive function: task-switching, inhibition, and updating mental models. The brain gets more comfortable sitting inside ambiguity because it has, in fact, been sitting there.
System breakdown creates cultural fluency
But here is the part the research tends to understate. You do not build this capacity by collecting passport stamps. You build it by watching one of your systems fail—a marriage, a job, a national self-image—and having to work out which parts of your own map were wrong and which were only wrong for that context.
When my marriage ended, I thought I was failing. What was actually happening was that one stable reference point had dissolved while everything else around me was still moving. The misreading—taking system collapse for personal collapse—is the specific error the psychologist Crystal Park has described in her work on meaning reconstruction. People don’t suffer most from the event. They suffer from the gap between the event and the story they have available to explain it.
This isn’t about cross-cultural childhoods. Career switchers feel it when finance logic refuses to map onto healthcare. Military families rewrite the rules of a neighborhood every three years. Immigrants carry two or three sets of assumptions and learn which one this room is running on. None of that is optional for them. Over time, it becomes their expertise.
The reason it matters now is that most working adults, not only migrants and switchers, are being asked to do this. Scholars studying polycrisis describe global systems failing in entangled ways, each failure propagating into the next. At a smaller scale, institutions are doing something similar—layering AI tools on top of 1990s workflows, remote coordination on top of in-person management, algorithmic feedback on top of human judgment—faster than anyone’s internal map can redraw. What feels like personal strain is often just the gap between how fast the rules changed and how fast a human nervous system can update.
The useful question under those conditions isn’t ” Am I keeping up?” It’s which rule-set am I inside right now, and is it the one I think it is?”
One practical way in: This week, name one unwritten rule at your workplace—the kind everyone follows but nobody says out loud. Who enforces it? What happens when someone breaks it? Write the answer down. The act of writing it moves you, for a moment, from inside the rule to outside it. That is the whole skill, in miniature. It is also how you stop reading system breakdown as personal failure: You get close enough to the rules to see that they were written by someone, under pressure, a while ago, and may not be what is actually running anymore.
Trondheim has burned down more times than anyone agrees on. Each time, the people who rebuilt it didn’t restore the old city. They left the port where it was, moved the streets slightly, and kept going. That is not resilience in the consolatory sense. It is something more ordinary: the willingness to notice which parts of the structure were load-bearing and which were only familiar.
Most of us, most of the time, cannot tell the difference until something fails.
