I landed a dream job after college, but it was in Seattle, far away from my close-knit family. I felt guilty leaving them behind.
Growing up in the suburbs of Southern California, I knew a few things to be true about my family. Most importantly, I knew that we only had each other. Unlike my friends at school, we did not have a network of extended family. There were no sprawling Thanksgivings, hangouts with cousins, or sleepovers at grandparents' houses.
It was just the four of us, navigating the space between the Western culture we lived in and the Eastern culture of our roots.
I grew up in Los Angeles as the eldest daughter of immigrants. My parents had left their motherland in search of new possibilities, knowing the only family they would have in America was the one they created: my little sister and me. For years, our world was small and contained. But that changed when I landed a job in a different city after college.
When I received my acceptance letter to a university in Los Angeles, I was reassured that I wouldn't be far from home. When I wasn't on campus, I was back in my childhood living room, catching up with my sister over boba or proudly snapping photos of her high school theater performances. I played Chinese checkers with my mom at the dining table and walked our family pup with my dad under the palm trees.
Meanwhile, my career was gaining momentum. By the end of my degree, I landed a dream job in Seattle. It was the first building block of my future.
All my life, my parents had encouraged me to go where the opportunity was. After all, that was what led them to America, allowing them to give their children the childhood they never had. In their eyes, if Seattle was where the opportunity lived, that is where I should be.
"The flight is not too far," my mom said. "But we will miss you."
Despite their blessing, I couldn't shake the guilt of leaving. I felt a continuous wave of internal conflict. On one hand, I was excited to experience something new. On the other hand, I felt responsible for leaving my already small family unit.
When I asked my friends if they ever felt guilty about moving away, I was surprised by their responses. For most of them, it never even crossed their minds. They viewed moving away as a given part of adulthood; they knew their hometowns wouldn't provide the industries they needed, and their parents shared that belief.
Perhaps my guilt stemmed from the fact that I was leaving a city that *could* offer similar career prospects. Would I feel the same if my family were located somewhere I didn't feel as warmly about?
Eventually, I talked myself into taking the job. As I settled into Seattle, I thought about how my grandparents felt when their daughter moved across the ocean from China to America. By comparison, my move of just a few states away felt minor.
"How did you feel when Mom told you she was considering leaving home?" I asked my grandma over video chat.
"She needed to make her own decisions on what she thought was best for her life," she told me. "But I did secretly cry about it. I made sure your mother never saw, because I did not want it to influence her decision."
That conversation helped me realize I had made the right decision. Beyond my career, living on my own gave me the space to understand myself more deeply. I began sharing my self-discovery journey online with the "Eldest Daughter Club," growing it into a community of women doing the same. I found different forms of family as I bridged the distance between my own.
I called my family often and planned routine trips back home. Although our in-person time was now more limited, I made sure a larger percentage of it was true quality time.
Guilt was the feeling that encompassed the discomfort of leaving behind the familial support system I had always counted on. In the end, I learned that support transcends location. We must all make the decisions we think are best for our lives. Guilt is just a signal of what you cherish, but it does not tell your whole story. That is for us to build, wherever we decide to call home.