Pushing through the airport security and walking past the different environments, I looked behind me and saw the four most precious people in my life waving at me. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking or what they were saying because I was too far away.

I had my carry-on luggage and food prepared by my mom and dad. My parents prepared me for the last home meal: khuushuur. The savory taste of the traditional Mongolian dish lingered in my mouth, still hot. I can still remember the taste of it. 

I looked back again. I saw their crying faces, especially from my dad. I had been hoping this day would not come, so I could stay with my family as long as I wanted. But fate was not on my side.

That was Nov. 21, 2021, and the day had come. I wasn’t at home. I was at the airport waiting for my flight to depart. I remember wishing the time would freeze.

It was a long flight from Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, to Incheon, Seoul, and then to San Francisco, California. It was my first time traveling and my first time traveling alone. No one was beside me, not even another passenger. 

I cried silently until I landed at the Incheon airport. I kept thinking about how my parents and my siblings waved at me the whole time as I left. 

Once I landed at Incheon, I started processing through what had happened in the past few hours. I remembered talking to the receptionist for the first time. I had had no experience speaking English. 

Eventually, I learned my next flight information. I rushed to find a chair and connected to the Wi-Fi. The first thing I did was call in a family group chat, even though it was late at night, and they picked up the call. 

Having an almost 24 hour layover is not a joke, but having my family on the phone made it exciting. I needed that connection because in my head, I had started to think about what I’d do if my new surroundings did not accept me because I’m Asian. 

Next was a 16-hour flight to San Francisco, and flying over the Pacific Ocean was not fun. The horror movies that I watched when I was young worried me, convincing me my plane could crash. Once again, I felt the emptiness beside me. I’d never felt it before, but the lingering presence of my parents and my siblings was strong. 

The first time I went to high school in the United States hit me differently. 

In Mongolia, we stick with the same classmates we first met in the first grade of elementary school. Going through a different environment was exhausting mentally and physically. I even gained a stomach ulcer from the stress of being alone.

I thought my new classmates and peers would accept me as myself. 

But being Asian-American is hard. 

My accent was different. I couldn’t communicate with everyone as I wanted to. 

Someone from the high school in California asked me about why I spread COVID-19. At the time, I didn’t even know how to answer back or talk with someone. I just made the topic slip away. 

I didn’t want to cause any problems.

I felt ashamed of myself when talking in front of people. I thought they would discriminate against me. 

I had thought this transition would be easier because I was independent, but I felt so much emptiness in my heart.

Sitting on the cold ground while eating lunch from the school canteen was lonely. Coldness was hitting me from every direction. I needed the warmth of kindness and care.

I watched students walk with their friends, having fun and eating together. I missed my Mongolian friends so much. 

Every single night I cried, missing my family and my friends, all still fresh in my mind. 

Three years later, I remembered how silly I was: crying all over the place without a reason. I heard from home that apparently, my uncle and aunt said that I was too old to cry. 

There’s no reason to cry because I chose this path. Now, I feel more confident than ever. I feel like I can crush this pathway. My friends in college make this journey really comfortable. 

I’m not going to lie; I still miss my family’s presence over my cold shoulders. Sometimes I wish I stayed at home, but I’m confident in the choice I made.

I must admit I was crying while writing this column.

I still miss the smell of the perfume my mom always uses. I still miss the body shampoo my dad always uses. I still miss how my two younger siblings always fight with each other. 

I still miss how my home felt warm even during the cold winter. I still remember how my family treats me well, even though we’re far away.