by Sophia N. Lee

The last time I left my bedroom in Manila, there were piles of clothing on the floor -- clothes I couldn’t take with me, but that would serve me in warmer weather when I returned. I made my brother promise to put them back into my cabinets after they got back from the airport.

I didn’t think twice about the books I couldn’t bring, the artsy things I had curated from past travels on my shelf, the good jewelry from my mother left on the counter because I hadn’t wanted to lose them in transit. I never thought about all that my room held within its four walls -- I believed that I was going some place where I could grow beyond every boundary that had ever held me back: New York.

Since then, I’ve lived without much walls to myself -- 6 months in a room with a door that didn’t lock, a year on a couch in my grandmother’s apartment, another two and a half in a windowless studio shared with an elder aunt. Growing up, I had enjoyed the luxury of space and a room all my own, but in coming here, I knew what I was willing to give up for a dream like America. 

Now, for the first time in four years, I have a room to myself again. On the floor, there’s a backpack with my clothes in it, and two laundry bags with nearly everything else that I own in America inside them.

I’m painfully aware of how empty this room is, but that can be said of me, too.

What have I really gained, since coming here?

I remember on the day that I left, how my dad messaged me when I was on the plane to say that he had knocked so long on my door so we could have our morning coffee, like always, forgetting that I was no longer there.

I feel so removed from the girl who had all that. I kept thinking of all that I would gain from leaving, but what of all the things that I lost? I thought I was jumping into a bigger pond, but what if I landed into some kind of frying pan instead?

What version of myself has landed here? And what parts of myself have I walled off in order to stay?