“When I grow up, I’m going to buy us a big house so that we could all live together.” This is a promise that I made and have learned to let go of recently. I used to dedicate my whole life to my parents when I was younger. I understood their sacrifices very well, as they would remind me every time when I did something wrong. My parents came to America in search for a better life due to the aftermath of the Vietnam War. My father had tried to escape by boat but was caught and went to prison where he picked up his smoking habit. He finally came in 1987 with American government assistance due to having ties with the South Vietnam military. My mother came in 1991 with the assistance of my uncle, as he went through the boat refugee process and sponsored her after working several years in America. They came from affluent, respectable backgrounds back in Vietnam before the war. My father came from a military family along with having affiliations with a successful printing press company in Sài Gòn. My mother came from Mỹ Tho, a rural part of South Vietnam; her family owned a rice cutting machine which made them prominent members of the local community. They would tell me that I have it much easier now compared to how heavily disciplined they were when they were my age. In Vietnam, they needed to be obedient to elders given that teachers and older members of the family could punish you. They had to remember and recite everything verbatim in school given how difficult it is to advance to the next grade level. They could not speak out against the government and abide by societal norms given the pressures to maintain face and conformity which allowed prosperity and success for them and the family. My father had aspired to become a doctor, and my mother had an interest with pursuing biology. Given the downfall of South Vietnam, roads to higher education and lucrative careers were no longer options for both of my parents after graduating among the top ranks of their high schools. I noticed a common theme in my parents’ way of thinking such that they believe that hard work now could lead to a happier future, but the future for them had changed many times. It occurred once with the war, another time with immigrating to America, and a third time with raising me. Their American Dream was nothing like they expected, as they were hoping for a better life. They experienced new stressors with needing to assimilate to American customs and immediately finding jobs that did not require a higher education to support their families being in America. My parents met in Ventura County, CA, as they worked together at a manufacturing and assembly company and got married in 1996. Having children for them meant a potential that all their sacrifices were worth it, and that future success would validate all that they went through. Ideally, they wanted two children: an older son to look over a younger daughter so that they can complement their parents and support each other as they grew older. I had cancer when I was three. I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia when they rushed to the hospital after seeing my skin turn pale, lacking in melanin. Cancer in Vietnam meant death, and all the jargoned medical terms jumbled through my parents’ ears. They had to take time off work to battle through hours of LA traffic daily to check up on me at the hospital. Undergoing various medications, steroid injections, and chemo at such a young age, I didn’t remember much of it—but my parents did. My mother had tried for another child at the time but decided on abortion as bringing in another child was no longer ideal given how stressful the current situation is on the family. Since then, my mother had switched career paths into being a nail technician as the job paid better along with being more accommodating around my personal schedule. I would hear about their chronic aches and newfound bodily pains from their physically demanding work. The need to succeed lie heavy on my shoulders to the point where I grew apart from my parents as I hid a lot of myself to make my parents happy and proud of me. From mediocre test scores to my queer identity, I knew all of those would bring shame to the family. In their eyes, being a student is all that I should be focusing on right now. They would white-out previous assignments and exams along with buying practice books for me to work on in my free time and summers. I would be punished for every question I got wrong in addition to any undesired behaviors that I exhibited. As damaging it was to my mental health, I never resented them for how I was brought up because I understood their history and good intentions with freeing me from a life of hardships like theirs. Coming out of high school, I felt that I had a lot to prove to myself. Growing up, many of my accomplishments were motivated by my parents; as a result, I lost my sense of individuality and grasp of what was my true passion. College freed me as I became more confident and comfortable with my authentic self. I could pursue my career choice with mental health without judgment and criticism. I was openly dating and surrounded myself with people who accepted me for my sexual orientation. I had support systems that I could always fall back on whenever I experienced academic struggles and personal hardships with stress, anxiety, and heartbreaks. It was different from what I had from home. It was what I lacked and wished that I had when I was growing up. UCLA became my bubble, as I understood more about myself and who I can personally rely on. Coming home periodically, I felt more like a house guest than someone who was a part of the family. They would always encourage me to come home more often, as they would make my favorite meals and do laundry for me—not only to save money but also for them to feel like they are a part of my life. The warm welcome felt ingenuine; after two days, previous tension began to grow again. I am reminded why I don’t like being at home. Being at home felt more like a formal check-in compared to how others define home as a safe place to be yourself. Similar to before, I still can’t let them know about the classes I haven’t been doing so well in along with my social engagements and dating life. There were three moments during my time at UCLA when I realized that I can’t keep living this double life. The first moment was when my grandmother passed away during my first year in college which reminded me that my parents were also growing older. The second moment was during winter break my third year when my parents expressed that they recognized that I do not share anything with them and wished for us to be closer. The third moment was when I was studying abroad half-way across the world in Australia during my fourth year and realized that I terribly lacked cooking skills along with going through a breakup and not having personal support to lean on. With the end of college, I realize that I cannot keep on living in this bubble. Part of knowing myself is to also let others know what I need and make compromises to mend personal differences. I came out to my parents during my time abroad, and we’ve been having a series of personal conversation since then. Braving through tough realizations, maintaining distance and boundaries, understanding cultural contexts, and giving reassurance that we will love each other no matter what, my parents and I have uncovered a genuine connection that I wished to have for a while now.