My dad’s words to me before I left for college always ring in my head with twinges of sentimentality:

“Once you leave for college, you’ll be leaving the nest. You won’t be living at home under your parents’ wings. You’ll be living on your own from then on.” 

Little did he know, I’d be spending the entirety of my third year of college at home. 

I don’t know if the choice was mine or my parents’, but I found myself in a plane heading back from Boston to Taiwan in mid-July. The airports were strangely lax, but not desolate. The level of precaution travelers took varied from bare faced passersby to families wearing safety goggles and face shields. My heart ached at the thought of returning. 

As the daughter of Taiwanese American immigrants, I love Taiwan, but anyone who has truly loved before knows that love can hurt deeply. It’s the country that bore me, though our ties were severed once my umbilical cord was cut. When I returned in my youth, my motherland did not welcome me with open arms. I was a traitor. I knew nothing about my culture, and I spoke Mandarin with an ugly accent. 

I lived in Taiwan for 10 years before leaving again for college. My identity has always been clouded with confusion and rejection. My time in Taiwan was fraught with insecurity and trauma, but I didn’t dare talk about it. Not while I was still on the island. 

When I left, I tried to live the life I wanted to, but the shadows of my past still held me back. There were things I couldn’t move on from no matter how I tried.

The thoughts I didn’t confront during the day trickled into my dreams at night. While my scars were healed on the outside, the deep flesh underneath was still soft and torn. Returning to Taiwan this year unleashed a tide of saltwater pouring over my wounds. 

Mentally, there’s a disconnect between my two worlds. I’m living a double life. Late at night, I’m a university student attending classes virtually. When classes started in September, the pandemic was only getting worse in the U.S. Our classes were held virtually, and professors and students alike complained about their isolation. I was suffering the same consequences of the U.S.’s inability to contain the virus, but my reality didn’t align with theirs. 

During the day, I’m a child again. The independence that came with university life has been stripped away. Whether I like it or not, I’m once again dependent on my parents, living under yet another safety net. In Taiwan, I am able to live a normal life without the threat of a lockdown. I can indulge in the safety of my country.

With that, comes a bittersweet sense of guilt. These are my privileges that cannot be ignored, yet I want to denounce the feeling of infantilization that arises with my being in Taiwan. I didn’t want to once again be the girl who only knows how to hurt and be hurt. 

One day, I was walking through the park with my childhood best friend. She moved away at a young age, but whenever we meet, we’re always able to pick up where we left off as if no time has passed. The warm afternoon sun on our supple itchy mosquito bitten skin reminded me of the times we spent playing as children. It’s a feeling I’ve buried until unearthing it again now. It’s the feeling of home. 

As I got older, I realized how untethered I was from my identity and a stable idea of home. I spend my time in Taiwan this year stepping into the footprints of my childhood self. Each step uncovers memories, thoughts, feelings, and senses I’ve long abandoned and denied. I’m learning what it means to become whole again. With the time I’ve been given, I’m starting to heal again. 

About the author：

Melody Tuan is an undergraduate student based in Boston majoring in English writing and minoring in Asian studies and Art. She’s an international student from Taiwan who loves rummaging night markets and devouring street food. Deeply inspired by cultural studies and creative expression, she writes with curiosity about identity and media influence

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