The Truth About Experiencing a Canadian Summer as a Third Culture Adult
The first time I experienced a Canadian summer, it felt like I had accidentally joined a very enthusiastic club without reading the handbook. Suddenly everyone was outside. All the time. People were floating down rivers, hauling coolers like it was a competitive sport and speaking casually about lake days as if this were a universal life skill I had somehow missed growing up.
I moved to Regina, Saskatchewan, from London, UK, in the winter of 2018 and it was, quite frankly, a (very snowy) rude awakening. After months of winter, I found my feet in Calgary, Alberta, and noticed the city didn’t just thaw, it transformed. People smiled like they had collectively survived something traumatic and were now determined to make the most of it. There was an urgency to it all, a sense that every sunny day had to be seized and turned into a memory.
Coming from the UK and having spent a couple of summers in India, I was used to seasons that didn’t require quite so much planning. In India, summer meant heat that wrapped around you like a blanket you didn’t ask for, ceiling fans working overtime and mangoes eaten over the sink because they were too juicy to contain. In the UK, summer was more of a hopeful suggestion than a guarantee, but the moment it arrived, people flooded parks and pub gardens like it might disappear any second (which, to be fair, it often did).
In both places, summer felt inherited to me. You knew what to do without thinking about it.
In Canada, I had to learn it. I was not a natural.
I remember my first park hang, showing up with what I thought was sufficient: a tote bag, a drink and a couple of snacks. Everyone else looked like they were preparing for a multi-day expedition. At one point, someone pulled out a set of camp chairs, a portable barbecue and something I later learned was called spikeball. I hadn’t even sat down yet.
Then came the lakes. Back home, a “lake day” doesn’t exist. The closest version would mean heading to a park and sitting by a pond—maybe dipping your feet in if you were feeling adventurous. Here, it was a full-body commitment. People weren’t just near the water, they were under it, in it and even… above it! There were hikers viewing the lake from the mountain, paddleboarders, even dogs swimming in the glacial waters! I remember thinking: is there a version of this where I can just sit and observe? Apparently not.
And then there was my first hike. I had imagined something leisurely—perhaps a gentle walk, an iconic viewpoint and a tasty sandwich at the end. Instead, I found myself halfway up a mountain, questioning my life choices, surrounded by people who seemed to be having a deeply spiritual experience while I was just trying to regulate my breathing so I didn’t seem so unfit. Everyone else had poles, protein bars and proper hiking shoes. I had enthusiasm and a light jacket.
As a third culture adult—British, Indian and Canadian—I’ve come to realize that summer here isn’t something I inherited. It’s something I’ve had to learn and assemble for myself.
That learning didn’t happen all at once. It came in small, slightly awkward moments that slowly began to feel familiar.
Park hangs were the first to click. At first, I felt underprepared, like I was missing some unspoken checklist of camp chairs, games, outdoor equipment and easy confidence. But over time, I realized no one was performing it as perfectly as I had imagined. Canadians are relaxed in a way that doesn’t always announce itself. Even when the setups look elaborate, there’s an ease underneath it all. I stopped trying to match what everyone else brought and started showing up in my own way—sometimes with snacks, sometimes just with time to sit and take it in. I am proud to say, however, that I now own a set of four camp chairs that stay in the trunk of my car throughout the whole summer (just in case).
Lake days took longer. I still don’t run into the water without hesitation, but I’ve found my place at the edges of it. I remember the first time I swam to a floating dock—it felt like I’d won gold at the Olympics. That’s something I never thought I’d be brave enough to do, coming from a place where the only swimming action I got was my local community indoor pool. Sitting with my feet in the lake, watching paddleboards drift across the surface, and families sharing games and snacks as the Canadians squeeze in every last bit of sunshine before packing up.
There’s a quiet rhythm to it.
People might arrive with full itineraries—kayaks, inflatables and plans, but they also know how to pause. They don’t always make a big deal of it, but they appreciate and make the most of what’s around them.
Hikes were perhaps the most intimidating and the most surprising. What I first experienced as effort—incline, distance, breathlessness—slowly shifted into something else. I began to notice how often people stopped. Not just to rest, but to look. At a view, at a patch of wildflowers, to say “Hi” to fellow hikers (unheard of on a walk in London) and even to catch a glimpse of wildlife if you’re lucky. There’s an appreciation woven into the movement itself. Even in the busy-ness of making the most of summer, there is space for quiet observation.
I’m now in my eighth year of living in Canada. I’ve learned that belonging doesn’t always come from doing what everyone else is doing. Sometimes, it comes from noticing how you want to experience something. Watching people float down the river, hearing a mix of languages drift through the air, feeling the summer sun beam on your face—it becomes its own kind of participation.
There’s also something that shifts when you return to the same places over time. What once felt unfamiliar begins to hold memory. A certain pathway, a stretch of river or a particular viewpoint—they start to feel like yours. Not because you’ve always known them but because you’ve chosen them again and again.
That, I think, is what celebrating summer as a third culture adult really means. It’s not about fully stepping into someone else’s version of the session, nor is it about holding onto your past so tightly that nothing new can take root. It’s about allowing both to exist at once. Letting your understanding of summer stretch to include new rituals, new landscapes, new rhythms without losing the ones that shaped you.
There’s a softness in that. A quiet confidence in participating without performing. In enjoying without needing to prove that you belong.
Now, when summer arrives in Calgary, I feel that same collective exhale, but I’m a part of it in my own way. Not because I’ve mastered it, but because I’ve made space for my version of it to exist within it.
My summer might include chai instead of iced drinks, slower days instead of packed itineraries and moments of observation rather than constant movement. It might look different from the version I see around me.
But it feels like mine.
And maybe that’s the point.
