Photography by Yew Wey Lim
Everyone online often showcases the fun and exciting aspects of moving to a new environment, a new country. Moving is often framed as a way of romanticising life or living to the fullest—full of promised adventure. But hardly anybody talks about the uninvited guilt that accompanies every journey toward opportunity.
As the reality sinks in, the Masters’ congratulatory email I received is no longer just a celebration of what lies ahead, but a quiet acknowledgement of what I must leave behind. Leaving home means leaving the people who raised me—not because I love them any less, but because I am becoming my own person. Because growth demands movement. Because progress and the pursuit of a career sometimes require distance.
The guilt settles in quietly. The people I once saw every day became a face behind a video call once or a few times a week. Through the screen, I noticed the small changes I would have missed otherwise: increased strands of grey hair, deepened frown lines, wrinkles that have formed with time. Stress becomes visible in their eyes. As one child leaves the nest, each after the other, their worry deepens, and all you can do is reassure them—I’m becoming. My old bedroom now stands unoccupied, the bench at the dining table sits unused and the study room stands unusually tidy, free from the mess of my arts and crafts projects. It settles, too, into the people and pets I have left behind.
My childhood dog is now a senior, the pinnacle of health at 14 years old. Her big cavalier eyes still sparkle for treats, attention and love, while her affectionate poodle nature remains. And yet, I worry. A million hypothetical scenarios fill my head. As I walk away with my luggage in hand, I urge myself not to look back. What used to be “see you later” has become “see you, hopefully in December.” She won't understand. But I know she will wait for me, for as long as she can anyway.
Moving is not unfamiliar to me. I moved once before at twenty-one. That girl was full of life––ready to jump boldly into her creative ambitions and love, go on adventures that would ultimately change her, and discover parts she hasn’t met yet. For the second time, I have the opportunity to return to university for a master’s degree at 24. 6,040 kilometres away from home. I still have to remind myself, “I am a big girl, I am experienced.” Yet I find leaving the second time feels harder than the first. The excitement I had diminished, no longer carrying the weightlessness of youth. It is now a half-hearted emotion, knotted with guilt and becoming. A progression that feels akin to a term, dialectic synthesis—holding loss and growth in the same breath.
Leaving now means time taken away from my 60-year-old aging parents—the people who held me in every doubt, sheltered me through every uncertainty and picked me up when life was unkind. My therapist taught me that, in time, the term guilt may soften as it transcends into gratitude, new perspectives and a way to appreciate independence and individuation.
Even with a heavy heart to leave, my roots are etched in the way I go through life from now. I notice them in small, quiet ways. My mother's resilience shows through the ways I handle unexpected challenges; my father’s persistence reminds me to stay steady when uncertainty presses in and the lessons they wove into ordinary days now anchor me across continents. Guilt still lingers, but it's a reminder of what I have left behind. I am learning to carry it home with me, not as a burden, but as a source of strength and warmth.
To go on this journey of becoming is not a selfish path. Time won't stop and the people and pets we love will keep growing old—we can flourish too. Love does not diminish with distance. It stretches, it adapts, it learns new shapes. Becoming does not mean leaving them behind, it means carrying them differently.