From Becoming to Belonging: Music, GRADIENTS, and My Journey as a Taiwanese-Australian
For most of my life, people have asked me where I am from.Sometimes it's curiosity. Sometimes it's confusion. Often, when I answer, there's a pause — and then another question. I've grown used to it. Looking and sounding racially ambiguous often means people want a clearer answer than the one I can give. And sometimes, even when I do answer, they don't quite believe me.Growing up this way teaches you something early: the world often wants you to be simpler than you really are.For a long time, I thought that was something I needed to fix. I tried to make myself easier to explain — easier to place. But music never asked me to do that. Music allowed complexity. It allowed contradiction. It allowed me to take up space.And Taiwan became the place where that space finally felt like home.Becoming Taiwanese: A Decision, Not an AccidentIn March 2024, I made a decision that had been quietly forming in my heart for years: I applied for Taiwanese citizenship.The trigger was very clear. I learned that a new law had come into effect on January 1, 2024, making it more accessible for new second-generation to apply for citizenship. When I read about it, I remember thinking: This is it. This is the step I've been waiting for. It wasn't about convenience. It was about recognition — of a life already lived here, of contribution already made, and of a connection to Taiwan that has always felt instinctive rather than symbolic.The process itself was not easy. Anyone who has gone through it knows that paperwork, coordination, and emotional endurance are all part of the journey. And I also know we still have work to do as a society to make this process clearer and more accessible for other new second-generation who wish to follow the same path.That's why I want to speak openly about my experience. If sharing my journey can make the road a little less confusing for someone else, then it matters.On August 12, 2024, I received my citizenship.It remains one of the most meaningful days of my life.I still remember standing inside the District Office, surrounded by people calmly handling administrative paperwork — and there I was, probably looking completely unhinged, excitedly taking photos with my new ID card. People looked at me like I was crazy. But to me, it wasn't “just a card.” It was a milestone. A dream I had carried since the first day I stepped foot in Taiwan.That day wasn't really about bureaucracy. It felt like something settling into place.What Taiwan Feels Like to MeBelonging, I've learned, isn't only built through legal status. It's built through daily life.For me, Taiwan feels like walking the streets without needing a reason and feeling safe. It feels like stopping by a local tea shop and seeing familiar, friendly faces. It feels like humidity — the kind most people complain about, but which I've grown to love because it wraps around you and reminds you where you are.It feels like finishing a gig late at night and knowing that is always waiting — any day of the week — without shortage of warmth, flavor, or life. It feels like food that tells stories, streets that stay awake with you, and a rhythm of living that quietly welcomes you in.These are small things. But this is how home is built.Music as a Place I Never Had to ChooseMusic was the first place where I didn't feel pressure to “pick a side.”In jazz especially, the rule is simple: you listen, you respond, and you create together in real time. That practice shaped not only how I sing, but how I move through the world. You don't arrive with all the answers. You arrive open.That philosophy became the foundation of my mini album, GRADIENTS.I named it Gradients because that's how life feels to me — not clear-cut, not one thing or the other, but constantly shifting shades. This chapter of my life has been about becoming: becoming more honest, more grounded, more myself.Each song reflects a different emotional color — stillness, longing, warmth, joy, uncertainty, quiet confidence. Together, they trace the process of figuring out who I am and who I am becoming.Almost Giving Up — and Choosing to StayThe creation of Gradients was not smooth.There was a moment when I nearly quit altogether.When the first single of the mini album failed to appear due to distribution issues, I was devastated. I had poured everything into my music — emotionally, financially, creatively — and suddenly it felt invisible. When the situation couldn't be resolved, I remember feeling completely powerless.I truly considered abandoning the release.But instead, I did something different. I took matters into my own hands. I searched, asked questions, learned systems I never thought I'd need to understand, and found a way to move forward.Not long after, things quietly began to move again. The music found its way back into the world, and I found my way back into the work. That period taught me something simple but lasting: resilience isn't loud. Sometimes it's just refusing to disappear.Carrying Taiwan With MeAs I write this, I'm back in Australia, preparing to perform at the National Multicultural Festival.I'll be standing on stage in one home, representing another.There's something deeply moving about that. Australia is part of my roots — the place where my earliest sense of self took shape. Taiwan is where my teenage and adult life took shape — my work, my friendships, my voice, and my confidence. Coming back here, carrying music shaped in Taiwan, feels less like a contradiction and more like a continuation.In March, I'll be taking that same music to Europe — to Poland — to perform alongside Grammy-nominated artists from different cultures and backgrounds, all bringing their own histories to the same stage. Each time I cross a border with my music, I feel the same quiet responsibility: I'm not just sharing songs. I'm sharing what Taiwan has given me — openness, trust, and the freedom to be complex.Being a New Second-Generation VoiceAs a new second-generation, I often think about what it means to belong to a place that you actively choose. I don't see my background as something that needs to be corrected or explained away. I see it as perspective. Growing up navigating difference trained me to listen carefully, to translate emotion across cultures, and to build connection where others see distance.Taiwan has given me something I didn't expect: permission.Permission to grow without erasing parts of myself. Permission to contribute without constantly justifying my presence. Permission to be complex — and still belong.That, to me, is what a truly inclusive society looks like.A Message ForwardTo young people with new immigrant or second-generation backgrounds who want to create, I want to say this:Don't rush to hide what makes you different. One day, that difference will become your voice.At the same time, protect your craft. Practice. Learn. Build discipline alongside your dreams. Creativity needs structure to survive.Most importantly, trust that your story has value — even before the world reflects it back to you.Today, I no longer feel like I live “between” places in a lonely way. I feel like I carry more than one place inside me — and I've learned how to turn that into music.GRADIENTS is my way of saying that identity doesn't have to be a single answer. It can be a spectrum.And in Taiwan, I've found the space — and the permission — to let that spectrum exist.As a Taiwanese–Australian second generation, Caitlin chooses to build her life and creative work in Taiwan, piecing together a sense of belonging through everyday experience. (Photo / Courtesy of Caitlin)
