The Ones You Leave Behind

“It’s all part of growing up,” I thought to myself as I walked to my gate, awaiting to go back to the U.S.

I had the privilege to go back home to Malaysia after my mission trip to Cambodia ended last summer. The moment I step foot on the streets of Phnom Penh – being in the hot humid air, smelling food in the atmosphere, feeling and witnessing the sense of community ingrained in Asian culture – I knew I couldn’t wait to be back in Malaysia.

I was received by my dad and my sister at the KLIA airport. “Welcome home, Kayla,” my dad said as he hugged me tight. I almost forgot how gentle his voice sounded in real life. For the first time in what felt like forever, it was no longer his over-the-phone voice that I was hearing.

I came home to the smell of my mom’s cooking. She hurried out the kitchen, apron still on and all, and excitingly said: “Look what I cooked for you!” She smiled gleamingly as speckles of sweat dripped down the side of her face.

It felt so foreign, to be taken care of like that again after a long time.

I was home. This was where I was born, where the foundations of my values were formed, where my culture is, and where I was comfortable. Everything felt familiar again.

I took a drive with my cousins on my first night back. Knowing the directions to the places I wanted to revisit felt like second nature. And driving on the left side of the road was impeccably satisfying.

In my trip home I willingly spread myself thin, just so I could spend as much time with the people I love despite the limited energy I had in a day. I don’t think I was ever satisfied, though. I always wanted more dinners, more late-night drives, more doing the mundane together, more sleepovers, more time.

It was never enough and what I hated the most was how my mind would unconsciously count down the days I have left in Malaysia.

Leaving this time was somehow harder.

Maybe it was the food my mom made me. I mean it has to be.

Maybe it was the endless laughter that came with my best friends from high school.

Maybe it was seeing my sister start college and seeing my cousins mature into adolescence, realizing 

that I totally missed out on those crucial milestones in their lives.

Maybe it was noticing the wrinkles on my parents’ face that weren’t there the last time I was home, and knowing that I won’t have the chance in the near future to take care of them.

Or maybe it was because I let myself get attached. And my attachment translated into the countless thoughts I had in the midst of being around the people I love that echoed: “What if I just moved back?”

This is the thing about being away from home. You don’t realize what you have until it’s not there.

But leaving doesn’t have to be sad. It’s part of growing up, it’s the start of a new beginning, and new beginnings does not mean erasing the old.

It comforts me that nothing much has changed in my relationships back home. We still laugh at the same things, go to the same places, and enjoy each other in the same ways. We all grew, some more than others, but all for the better.

These people that I have back home makes my heart ache and overwhelm with joy simultaneously. They are the ones who stuck by me through all the stages in my life and watched me grow into who I am today. They guided me through my failures and cheered me on in my success. They would text or call me at the weirdest hours because of the different time zones just to let me know that they’re thinking of me. They would also send me birthday presents from halfway across the world just to make sure I feel loved. Despite the distance, they’re still more than willing to invest time in our relationship. They never gave up. Love never gives up.

It’s a warm feeling when you know that you have people to fall back to, even though where they’re at is not where your anchor lies. These people have been such constants in my life and I can’t be more grateful.

I hope they’re well, and I can’t wait to see them again.

My parents. Taken by me the last time I was home.