Turning 30

twelve years away from home.

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I write about growing up in China and finding home in the U.S., stories that bring me joy, make me think, move me to tears, and the tiny thoughts I have to share with the world. Paid subscription makes my writing possible and will receive occasional essays that explore topics that are deeply personal to me.

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I turned 30 earlier this year. My mom, who lives in China, was with us in California and celebrated the special moment with me. The last time I spent my birthday with her was more than ten years ago, when I turned 18, just a few months before leaving for college in the United States.

Growing up, my mother reminded me every year that my birthday was also the anniversary of her “suffering day.” I know that she did not receive an epidural or any pain management when she gave birth to me, and the way she described how much pain she had to endure so that I could come into this world always made me feel a little guilty as a kid.

Whether that’s guilt-tripping or simply telling the truth, she made sure I understood that birthdays are not just about the person celebrating, but also about their mothers, and the mothers that came before them. On her birthdays, she always gives the first piece of cake to her mother, my Wai Po (maternal grandmother), makes the first toast out to her, and sometimes, even buys her a bouquet.

My mom was only 25 when I was born.

I thought about my mother a lot when I turned 25, the very age when she gave birth to me. I was in the last semester of graduate school. Job applications, interviews, and coffee filled my days. My boyfriend was on the other side of the country finishing up his graduate school courses and planning to start his first job in San Francisco. At 25, I was in a long-distance relationship across three time zones, unemployed, and couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. Yet, at that age, my mom had already given birth to me, caring for another human being. Yes, times were different back then, but 25 is still a tender age.

At 30, she had already been a mother for five years. She wasn’t perfect, but pretty close to it. I was often sick as a child and frequently shuffled in and out of the hospital by different relatives. It was only later that I learned from my grandpa how much she cried then, behind my back. She was so young and had to cope with a sick child. Of course, she didn’t show any of that to me—only happiness, laughter, sunshine, and love.

Turning 30 didn’t feel much different from turning 28 or turning 29. But it has been a stark reminder of how much time has passed since I left home. A decade is a long time. Twelve years is two more years than a decade. That makes it beyond comprehension, and yet here we are.

A death that I never properly grieved.

I graduated from college, finished graduate school, moved around the States, was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that turned my life upside down, changed jobs a few times, and got married. During those years, my paternal grandparents passed away one after the other - one from Alzheimer’s, and the other due to a stroke. I missed both of their funerals.

There is a lot of irony in being the first person to suspect that something was wrong with my grandmother’s memory while also being the family member furthest away from her. I was talking to her on the phone one day; I was in Houston, and she was in China. She kept asking when I’d stop by her house for dinner and suggested I come over that weekend. Two things hit me at once: she had completely forgotten that I was thousands of miles away, and she must have missed me terribly.

I remembered picking up my mother’s call while walking up Powell in San Francisco. I stopped outside the Lush store to answer the call, hearing her cry on the phone and trying to decipher what she was saying. I stared at the colorful handmade soap bars inside while tears ran down my face uncontrollably. Strangers walked past me, tourists giggled up and down the hilly street, and the floral and fruity scents from the soap bars permeated the air. I didn’t have my Nai Nai anymore.

My parents never asked me to attend the funeral. They understood where I was in life at that time. I was job searching against a 90-day work permit deadline. Leaving the U.S. to visit China without a job offer would risk never returning. Nai Nai visited me in my dreams often right after her passing. Sometimes, she’d say cruel things to me in my dreams, and I’d cry until I woke up with tears. But most of the time, she says sweet things to me, like she always did when she was alive.

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After turning 30, I’ve thought more about the moments I’ve missed over the years: my childhood friends’ weddings, high school reunions, Lunar New Year celebrations, funerals, and cousins’ birthdays.

I thought about the last time I was there for those events.

It felt like another life.

It was another life.

Shortly after I turned 18, my mom asked me at the send-off dinner my family organized for me, if I’d be back at all.

I reassured her then, “Of course, I will come back. It’s home, after all.”

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