When I was in kindergarten, whenever my dad dropped me off at school without saying goodbye, I would start crying the moment he left and would not stop until my poor teacher wrangled him back to say “bye” to me. When I was in fifth grade, I embarked on my first overnight trip without my parents for Science Camp, and I cried for nearly all of the first night because I missed my family.
Yes, I cried a lot. I still do. And I anticipate more nights of waking up in college with a tear-soaked pillow and puffy eyes when I remember I’m on the opposite side of the country from my family.
Before my senior year, I let the days of home-cooked meals and feud-filled family vacations pass uncounted. Now, it’s hard to stop counting down the time I have left. It’s hard to believe that in just three months, I’ll be moving 2,830 miles away from home for college — three months left that I can walk upstairs and sleep in my mom’s bed, watch movies with my dad while he falls asleep on the couch or wander into my sister’s room to talk to her whenever I feel like it.
I fear that when I leave for college, parts of me will stay behind at my home in Cupertino, tucked away in the pockets of jackets my mom bought for me, pasted in our Christmas family pictures my parents decorate our walls with, hidden underneath the table where we play Mahjong on Friday nights. Yet more than anything, I’m terrified that the opposite will happen: that I’ll learn to live without my family, and that I’ll learn to love the independence I’ll gain more than the intimacy I’ll lose.
All the rituals of independence I have performed so far, from sleepovers at a friend’s house to an international summer program, have not been enough to prepare me for what seems like a final parting. Because for the next four years, I’ll only be able to visit home during holiday breaks, and that’s before my summers are filled with programs, activities and internships. And, after I graduate college and find a job, I’ll only be able to visit once or twice a year, if I’m lucky. Will I notice when Liz finally grows taller than me or when my parents’ hair turns gray? The possibility that I will slowly become more unfamiliar with my family is frightening, to say the least.
I fear that when I leave for college, parts of me will stay behind at my home in Cupertino, tucked away in the pockets of jackets my mom bought for me, pasted in our Christmas family pictures my parents decorate our walls with, hidden underneath the table where we play Mahjong on Friday nights.
While a part of me wants to stall time and preserve each memory I make during the little time I have left here with my family, I know I can’t. It’s supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to feel like I’m letting go and losing parts of myself because I am. I can’t think, feel and live the same way forever, and I know that going to college is a new chapter in my life.
Instead of leaving those memories locked in the past, I’ll carry them with me as I continue forward. I’ll keep my family close through the constant reminders they’re always by my side — the FaceTime calls and the pictures on my phone wallpaper. The lessons I’ve learned and the habits I’ve developed can also be traced back to them: I’ll think of Liz every morning as I try to imitate her 30-step skincare routine, I’ll think of my dad every afternoon as I navigate around his alma mater’s campus and I’ll think of my mom every night when I hear her voice in my head telling me to sleep earlier.
Soon, my parents will drop me off in front of my college dorm, just like they did on my first day of kindergarten. I hope my dad learned his lesson 13 years ago, because if he tries to leave without saying goodbye again, I will cry.
To be honest, regardless of what happens, I’ll probably cry anyway.
I’m so lucky to have a family I’ve cried over so much. I’m so grateful to have so many fond memories to reminisce about. And I’m so excited to continue to stay close to my family — even if we’re 2,380 miles apart.
