New York, United States

Visiting the U.S. on My Dad’s Posting While Trying to Build My Own Career

When my dad was posted to the United States, it felt like the kind of assignment everyone dreams about: big cities, big opportunities, a country that dominates the news, movies, and the global imagination.

From the outside, it looked perfect. From the inside, it was much more complicated.

By the time he moved there, I wasn’t a kid anymore. I wasn’t just along for the ride, changing schools and packing boxes when told. I was at the age where my life was no longer just an extension of his posting—it was supposed to be its own thing.

I had work to do. A career to build. Bills to think about. Plans that could no longer be paused every few years without consequences.

And yet, there I was, flying back and forth to visit, knowing that no matter how grown-up I felt, a part of me was still orbiting around his assignment.

A Different Kind of Arrival

The first time I landed in the U.S. to visit my dad on his posting, it wasn’t like all the other moves.

No one was greeting me with “Welcome home.”
No one was handing me a new school uniform.
No one expected me to unpack and stay.

Instead, I walked into a house that was “the family home” for this posting—but not fully my home.

My dad had his routine. My mom (if she was with him) had hers. There were embassy events, new colleagues, new friends, familiar diplomatic chatter about schedules, receptions, and official trips. It felt like the old life I knew growing up—just in a different country.

Except now, I was just visiting.

I slept in a guest room or a bedroom set up for me but clearly lived in by absence most of the time. My suitcase sat in the corner like a reminder: You’re not staying. You have somewhere else you need to be.

The Two Lives Problem

While I was in the U.S. visiting, my days were filled with family time—

Grocery trips in big American supermarkets,
Coffee runs to outlets I’d only seen in movies,
Drives on wide highways,
Weekends exploring suburbs, malls, or cities.

But in the background, my real life was still running:

Work emails waited in my inbox.
Projects, deadlines, or clients needed responses.
Career decisions sat there, not caring that I was halfway across the world “on a visit.”

It created a split:

In the U.S., with my dad, there was a soft expectation of presence:
“Since you’re here, let’s spend time together.”
“Can you join us for this event?”
“Let’s drive here this weekend.”

In my own life, there was an unspoken demand for continuity:
“Your career won’t build itself.”
“You can’t put everything on hold every time there’s a posting.”
“If you disappear too often, someone else will take your spot.”

I felt like I was straddling two worlds: the familiar comfort of being “the diplomat’s daughter” again, and the harsh reality of being an adult trying to stand on her own two feet.

Still Aligned to a Posting I Don’t Live In

Even though I wasn’t relocating with my dad this time, his posting still shaped my life.

If I wanted to see my parents, I had to work around embassy schedules and time zones.
Vacation days had to be saved and carefully used for trips to the U.S.—not random breaks, not spontaneous adventures.
When people asked, “Why don’t you just move there?” it wasn’t that simple. My residency, my job, my studies, my commitments—they existed in another system, another country, another reality.

There was also the emotional alignment:

When he got a new assignment or big responsibility, I felt it.
When things were tense politically or within the mission, I sensed the stress, even from a distance.
When he talked about staying longer or maybe extending, it meant recalculating how often I could visit, how long we’d have this particular version of “home.”

I was no longer physically moving with his career, but my life still bent around it.

The Pressure to “Make It”

Being in the U.S. as the child of a diplomat comes with quiet, heavy expectations.

There’s this unspoken narrative:
You’ve had international exposure.
You’ve seen the world.
You’ve studied abroad.
You speak multiple languages.

So you should be doing something impressive.
You should be ahead.
You should be thriving.

Meanwhile, you might feel:

Behind your peers who stayed in one place and quietly built stable careers.
Unsure how to translate your patchwork upbringing into a clear professional path.
Tired of starting over, reintroducing yourself, “explaining your background” in every interview.

Visiting the U.S. while my dad worked there made those feelings more intense. Here I was, in one of the most career-obsessed countries in the world, feeling pressure from both sides:

From the outside world: perform, achieve, be “global,” be “impressive.”
From the inside world: be a good daughter, show up when you can, stay connected to your family’s reality.

Sometimes, sitting at the embassy or at home in the U.S., I’d scroll through my work messages or reflect on my stalled applications and feel that tight knot of anxiety: Am I doing enough? Am I wasting my opportunities? Am I failing both my own path and my family’s expectations?

The Guilt That No One Talks About

There’s a particular kind of guilt that comes with this stage of life.

Guilt when you can’t visit as often as you’d like, because of work or money.
Guilt when you do visit, and feel like you’re falling behind professionally.
Guilt for not being there full-time when your parents are getting older.
Guilt for even thinking about yourself when they’ve sacrificed so much over the years.

I’d sit across from my dad at the dining table in the U.S. and wonder:

Does he wish I’d followed the old pattern—packed up, moved, tried to find something here just to be nearby?
Is he proud that I’m staying committed to my own career, even if it means distance?
Or does he, like me, feel that mixture of pride and sadness that we are now on parallel tracks instead of the same one?

No one gives you a manual for this part: the phase where your parents’ postings don’t automatically equal your path, but their choices still anchor parts of your heart.

Embassy Receptions and Name Tags

Visiting while my dad is posted somewhere often puts me in a strange in-between role at official events.

I’m not a dependent child anymore.
I’m not staff.
I’m not a diplomat.

But I’m not a regular guest either.

At receptions in the U.S., I find myself:

Smiling politely as people say, “Oh, you’re [Ambassador/Consul/Attaché X]’s daughter?”
Answering questions about “what I do,” feeling the weight of expectations press harder with every polite smile.
Listening to conversations about trade, security, cooperation, politics—and thinking about my next project deadline or job application.

There’s a sense that my life still “belongs” a little to this world, even if I’m trying to build something separate. It’s a reminder that, like it or not, I carry my dad’s role with me in how people see me.

Trying to Build “My Own” in the Shadow of “Ours”

The hardest part of visiting the U.S. while my dad is posted there is this:

I want my own life.
I also want to remain part of theirs.

Life as a diplomat’s child is built on we: we moved, we lived in X, we did Y, we left. Now, adulthood asks for I: I work here, I’m building this, I’m staying put (for now).

But the posting still pulls:

If they invite me to visit at a crucial time in my work, I have to choose: presence or progress.
If they suggest I explore opportunities in the U.S. while I’m there, I wonder: am I doing this for me, or to stay in orbit around their assignment?
If I decide to stay where I am, I have to live with the knowledge that I’m missing a whole chapter of their story.

Balancing that is not simple. It’s a constant recalibration of loyalty—to myself, to my family, to the person I’m trying to become.

What I’m Learning in the Tension

I don’t have a neat moral to wrap around this experience. I’m still in it. Still figuring it out.

But here’s what I am learning:

It’s okay for my life not to fully align with my dad’s posting anymore. That’s part of becoming an adult.
Love doesn’t always look like following; sometimes it looks like supporting from a distance while staying committed to your own path.
Pride and sadness can coexist: I can be proud of my father’s work and sad that our lives don’t overlap the way they used to.
Visiting a posting doesn’t make it less “real.” Short trips can still deepen relationships and build memories, even if I’m not living there full-time.

Most importantly, I’m learning that my story doesn’t stop being influenced by his—but it also doesn’t have to be dictated by it.

In the End

When I visit the U.S., I still feel that familiar mix:

The comfort of being with my parents.
The pressure of a country obsessed with success.
The pull of an old identity—“the diplomat’s daughter.”
The stubborn fire of a new one—someone building her own career, in her own way.

Maybe that’s what this stage of life really is: learning to stand on my own, without cutting the invisible thread that still connects me to a life of postings, embassies, and flags.

I don’t always get the balance right. Some days, I feel like I’m letting someone down—my parents, my boss, myself. But with each visit, each airport goodbye, each return to my desk or workplace, I understand a little more:

I’m not just a diplomat’s daughter anymore.
I’m a person with my own story—one that can stay aligned in love, even when it no longer fully aligns in geography.