If home is where the heart is, then my heart will be 27 miles away from me as I move into my apartment in the city from a suburb south of Chicago.

To many, moving into their first apartment during college is a standard milestone that a majority of students undergo. However, as I’ve come to realize how human my parents are in the last year or so, what is a milestone to me is also a milestone for my parents in a different, albeit still completely significant way. For me, moving away is an exercise of independence; for them, it’s a lesson in letting go.

Lately my parents have been regaling me with stories from their youth – from falling in love with each other at the ages of 20 and 23, respectively, to how they immigrated to America only a month after their marriage at 24 and 27. Their immigration story is a tale of determination and perseverance, punctuated with moments of loneliness and longing for the Philippines, but very much a triumphant tale of how two people who loved their own family, their future family, and each other so much that they would leave their native homeland in pursuit of better opportunity in a new and strange country.

However, as difficult as their immigration story may have been, my life has truly been a fairy tale since the moment I was born nine months after they both arrived in the US because of it. Their sacrifices and dedication have afforded me a life where I have not wanted for anything and had the opportunity to pursue whatever I desired. I was the princess of the quaintest little apartment when we were only a family of three and along came my little brother Justin and I had someone to affectionately boss around. A year later we moved into our two-story house and I remember being in awe at how big it was through my 4-year-old eyes. That year we were also blessed with the bundle of joy that is my little sister Jillian and my family was finally complete.

My parents will always regard the Philippines as their home but it is this house that they’ve made their family that I regard as mine. However, my definition of home is not just restricted to the roof and four walls that compromise a house, but rather, the foundation that is has provided for our family to grow, laugh, and love with each other over the last sixteen years. Home is not a dwelling place, but rather, four people who very much have the pieces of my heart.

Home is my mother. Home is her waking up with the sun and waking the rest of the house up by singing loudly along with her Filipino music as she cooks and cleans in the kitchen; it is the smell of her fried garlic rice in the morning and the wafting scent of her brownies in the afternoon; it is her ability to make a delicious three-course meal out of what’s in the refrigerator even after you’ve checked and decided there was nothing good to eat in there. Home is her father painting every single wall and her mother sewing every single curtain you can see and home is also her tending to the weeds at 6 in the morning and my 8-year-old self being excited about it because it meant I could bike in the front yard as soon as I wake up. Home is singing and playing guitar for her in the driveway as she watches over Justin and Jillian playing in the front yard. It is me sitting in her bathroom as she gets ready and it is us two sitting at the dinner table debating about life and love. Home is her making my dad a cup of coffee every single morning before she leaves for work and it is her sneaking into my room when my dad’s snores get too loud for her to sleep.

But home is also my father. Home is the sound of footsteps and jingling keys as he gets home from his nightshift and the sound of carrying voices as he tells mom about how his night went; it is also the sound of the lawnmower in the morning and the scent of freshly cut grass when he walks back into the house. Home is sitting next to him in the kitchen for hours before Christmas as we take turns stirring the ube until it’s the perfect, thick consistency and it is also savory steak made in mere minutes when we come down for dinner. Home is him snoring away on the couch in the family room in the morning and it is also the comfort of the TV screen shining from my parents’ room because he can’t fall asleep late at night. It is us squealing with laughter as little children as he pretended to be the tickle monster and it is running past the sprinklers he set as if it was a game outside. Home is the phone ringing around midnight as my dad calls my mom just to talk during his break; it is him going out in the afternoon after he wakes up to buy or make us lunch. Home is his loud and genuine laugh ringing through the house as he talks to his brother on the phone and it is him making faces behind my mom’s back whenever she is mad.

And home is my little brother and sister. It is my brother making us hot dogs and eggs as a midnight snack or my sister randomly making us pancit canton whenever she’s craving it. It is us swinging all morning in the backyard and going down the slide together when we could still fit; it is me teaching them basic volleyball before they ended up being so much better than I am; it is us biking around the block and spending our summer nights outside. Home is us splashing in the kiddie pool we used to fill every summer and it is all the snowballs and snowmen we would make every winter season. Home is laughing together at the same Friends episode over and over and it is movie marathons in the family room until we fall asleep. It is my sister’s obnoxious laughter down the hall as she watches netflix in her room and it is my brother’s voice carrying through the night as he sleep talks next door; it is my sister rushing into my room to share the latest gossip and it is my brother always stopping by to ask me what he should wear. Home is us playing lava with the couches and the pillows and it is a 6-year-old me and a 3-year-old Justin laughing hysterically as we pretended to save 2-year-old Jillian from a volcano by pushing around the house on her baby walker. Home is barging into either of their rooms and laying on their bed for no apparent reason other than missing them and being too proud to admit it.

This family that my parents so lovingly created is my one true home and though I’ll be waking up in another place and going about my business inside a different set of four walls, I know there’s a place that exists that I can always run to – with four different pairs of arms to draw strength and support from. As I start and finish these last two years of nursing school, I won’t have my mom to wake me up in case I oversleep or my dad to remind me to eat or my brother and sister around to make me laugh when the stress of school is all I can think about but whenever I feel like everything is becoming too much, I will remember whose daughter I am and who is inevitably looking up to me. It is my parents’ sacrifices that inspire me; it is the blessed childhood that my siblings and I had that makes me hope for more.

Mom, Dad, Justin, and Jillian – It feels a little silly writing all of this because we all know I will most likely come home every other weekend and technology has made it possible that we can facetime or text to the groupchat whenever we want but I have to acknowledge all the family dinners I won’t be home for, all the long conversations that will have to wait, and all of the funny family moments I will sadly miss. Please know it isn’t because I want to but because I must go out and grow up to be the strong, independent daughter and sister that you’ve always wished me to be. All of this is only possible because your love and support and your love and support is all I ask from you. I love you all so very much and I’ll miss you every moment I’m away. But don’t worry because no matter what happens or how busy I become, I will always find my way back home.

Love,

Janelle.