Becoming the teacher I want to become
Betsy Flint Smith reflects on her experience as a Third Culture Kid and its impact on her teaching style in the UK
 From Bangkok to Walthamstow
“Sorry, did you just say you grew up in Thailand?” is the usual reaction I get when explaining where I’m from to colleagues at my school in Walthamstow.
“Yes,” I reply, “I lived there from the age of two to nineteen and went to a British international school called Bangkok Patana.” Cue wide eyes, as though I’ve just admitted to being raised on Mars.
Now, in my first year as an Early Career Teacher—still finding my feet and often unsure of it all—I’ve started to reflect more seriously on what shaped me, and how that’s shaping the teacher I’m becoming. How does the UK state system compare to the international one I grew up in? What has changed in the curriculum—and more interestingly, how have I changed from student to teacher?
As a Third Culture Kid (TCK)—someone raised in a culture different from their parents’ or passport country—I viewed the world through a lens that didn’t quite belong to one place or another. Living in Thailand, speaking English at school, hearing Spanish in lessons and Thai on the street . . .  I didn’t think about it as different. It just was.
Now, teaching in East London in a classroom full of children from beautifully diverse backgrounds, I see echoes of that experience. But I also notice what’s missing—and what’s gained. The tone, the texture, the pace of learning is different here. And that’s where the reflection begins.
School culture and celebrations
My school memories are shaped by cultural celebration. I remember International Day—parading in clothes from our “home” country, celebrating with food, music, and exhibitions. We had Loy Krathong, Chinese New Year, Spirit Days—culture wasn’t just celebrated, it was woven into the school’s identity. Parents helped, children led, and it felt joyful. But as I reflect now, I realise how curated those events could sometimes be—slick, organised, and often polished by the privilege of time, staff, and resources.
In my current school, we celebrate culture too—but it looks different. Here, it’s more spontaneous, more grounded in everyday experience. On Global Discovery Day, I’ve watched children teach songs in their home languages and share food made with their families. As we say in Thailand “same, same, but different!”
I’ve also noticed that while the settings differ, families are navigating many of the same emotional landscapes. In international schools, I saw busy parents balancing high-pressure careers and international travel. In my current school, I see parents working long shifts or facing other challenges that keep them apart from their children. The causes vary, but the impact is familiar—children sometimes carry that distance with them into the classroom. And in both places, schools become a kind of anchor—for the children, and sometimes for their parents too.
Language and learning
Multilingualism was normal when I was at Patana. We switched languages in conversation without blinking. There was an expectation that everyone could speak more than one language—and if you couldn’t yet, you would soon. Structured EAL support was always available, and the school had the resources and staffing to offer individualised programmes. But there was also choice. I think that children with very limited English didn’t always join our school—sometimes, they were placed elsewhere, depending on their starting point.
As a student, I didn’t see the complexities behind this. I didn’t notice who wasn’t there. I just saw that most of us managed well. But now, teaching phonics in a state school in East London, I see it from the other side. Here, no child is turned away. Every language need is met, however complex, however early. There’s something deeply powerful in that inclusivity.
I now understand what it means for a child to be labelled as “quiet” or “still learning English.” I’ve been there. I know that silence can hide fluency in thought—just not yet in speech. And I get to be part of that transformation. Children who came in with little English are now sounding out phonemes and forming sentences. That kind of progress is magic.
Resources and realities
Growing up, I had access to everything—drama studios, music rooms, laptops in classrooms, libraries filled with books from around the world. I didn’t realise how rare that was. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it—the large swimming pools, West-End-standard theatres, purpose-built classrooms, and a beautiful library that sat at the heart of the school. It was an environment designed to inspire, and it succeeded.
Now I teach in a school where we ration Blu Tack, re-use display borders, and collect cardboard tubes for the next art project. The library, small and tucked in a corner, is still valued by staff and loved by children. But the experience is different.
It’s hard to compare the two fairly—after all, one was my childhood, enjoying the benefits of privilege; the other is my present, working within tighter systems. Both international and state schools strive for equity—but the gap between children’s starting points feels more visible, more urgent, here in Walthamstow. In my international school, there was extensive support for SEN and EAL, but the range of need often felt narrower. Here, the diversity of experience, background, and access to opportunity is striking—and it makes the role of the teacher even more crucial.
What’s remarkable is how powerful learning still is in both settings. The joy of discovery, the creativity in the classroom, and the relationships between teacher and child—they aren’t dependent on budgets. They just take different shapes. And that’s made me more intentional—not just about what I teach, but how I teach it.
Teacher identity and mentoring
As a student, I thought teachers had all the answers. Now I know how much of teaching is about listening, adapting, and showing up with curiosity.
In the early days, I often felt unsure—standing in front of a room full of children, hoping I was getting it right. That’s where mentoring has been essential. I’ve been lucky to have experienced colleagues who’ve supported me, guided me, and reassured me that I don’t have to have it all figured out. Their encouragement helped me find my voice and reminded me that being a teacher is a journey, not a performance.
My background gave me a global lens. But teaching in a UK state primary has grounded me in what education means at a local level. I see it in the friendships between children from different cultures and accents, in the way older siblings protect younger ones, in the little “villages” of grandparents and neighbours that form at the school gates. It reminds me of the strong sense of community I knew growing up internationally—where the school often became family, especially for teachers and their children. For those living far from home, the staffroom became the support network, and other teachers’ children became your weekend playdates. Grannies and neighbours in Walthamstow play a similar role to the “adopted families” we made abroad—just formed differently. One isn’t better than the other, but both show how powerfully schools can become centres of belonging.
Ending & Reflection
I’m still learning what kind of teacher I want to be. But I know this: I want to build on the best of what I experienced growing up—an education that embraced culture, celebrated language, and made learning feel exciting. At the same time, I want to create a classroom rooted in the lives of the children I teach now. One where belonging isn’t something added on for special occasions, but something that’s lived and felt every day.
And perhaps, as new teachers, we need that too. We need mentors who see us, believe in us, and remind us that learning never ends. Because whether you’re teaching with endless resources or making displays out of cereal boxes, one thing remains the same: children thrive when they’re loved, believed in, and given a reason to believe in themselves.
That’s the classroom I’m building. One that honours my past, is grounded in the present, and is shaped by the children in front of me every day.
I don’t have very many of the answers yet—but searching for them is part of becoming the kind of teacher I want to be.
Betsy Flint Smith is an Early Years teacher working in London
FEATURE IMAGE: by Waranont (Joe) on UnsplashÂ
Support Images: Thank you to Betsy, tamkung from Pixabay, Curated Lifestyle For Unsplash+ and coldsnowstorm from iStock
