“Her moodiness...” my mother says in a loud whisper to Aunt Arlene. “It's those teenage hormones.”
I glare at the back of her head. She'd be moody too if she were responsible
...
[+]
I grew up never really belonging anywhere. My family moved every three years, new countries, new languages, new classrooms. People admired it: "You're so lucky, you've seen so many places." But the truth was, I never had a hometown. No childhood best friend. No place I could point to and say: this is where I come from.
The only sense of home I had was my family; my dad, my mom, and my brother. Wherever we went, they were my constant. Their approval, their values for a long time, that was my compass.
And their expectations were clear. I was supposed to be humble, dependable, able to run a household well. But not someone who excelled too brightly. Not someone who stood at the front, competing with men. That, I was told, would make me less desirable in the marriage market.
The truth is, no matter how much I tried to fit that mold, I kept slipping out of it. I always ended up in leadership roles. I always wanted the next promotion. I wanted to test myself, even when it didn't fit the image of the "ideal daughter" or "ideal partner." At the same time, I kept trying to play both sides, to be ambitious at work but agreeable in relationships. It was exhausting, like splitting myself in two.
And then one day, everything collapsed.
My brother didn't come home from his graduation ceremony. We later learned he hadn't been able to graduate because of his mental illness. That night, he tried to take his life.
I can still hear my mother's trembling voice on the phone when she told me. The sound of her breaking made me realize instantly: I had to hold our family together. For two years, my life revolved around helping him recover, such as taking him out, showing him new views, reminding him the world was still worth staying for. My mother was shattered, so I became her support too. My value system turned into one thing only: keep the family safe, stable, alive.
When things finally began to settle, I felt something stir again. The dream I had been carrying quietly all along: to go to business school. To sharpen my leadership, to step into an international setting where I could really grow.
So I told my parents.
They didn't understand. Why would a daughter need a master's degree? Why waste two years on "unnecessary" skills like leadership and negotiation? To them, this was the perfect moment to marry, to settle, to finally stop chasing. My long-term partner agreed, he said an MBA was throwing money away, and we should invest in a house instead.
The people I had leaned on my whole life, my anchor, my stability, they all turned me down.
It hurt. But it also made something clear: the security I had always clung to was never really mine. It was borrowed. If I wanted to steer the compass of my own life, I had to stop looking for validation and start trusting myself.
So I went all in.
I applied to programs in France and Singapore. I got into both. And when it came time to decide, I knew I wouldn't have emotional or financial support. I would have to take out loans, manage every cent, and face the possibility of failing alone.
It terrified me. But I clicked accept.
I still remember boarding the plane with two luggages. My heart was heavier than my luggage, but for the first time, it was beating to my own rhythm. I stared out the window as the ground pulled away beneath me, the city shrinking into patterns of light. There was no undo button, no going back, but I never turned back.
Now, in classrooms full of people from every corner of the world, debating with professors, discovering parts of myself in therapy, I know the leap was worth it. I've learned that going "all in" isn't just about risk. It's about taking ownership of your choices. If it goes wrong, there's no one else to blame. But if it works, you realize you've built a life that is truly yours.
For me, that's what freedom feels like. Not certainty. Not approval. But autonomy.
I went all in and for the first time, I feel at home. Not in a place, but in myself.