The first time I received the news, I don’t remember thinking much about it. I was only 5 years old back then. I was home in my two-story house in Pearland, with its purple-sequin curtains and floral wall stickers, that was slowly stripped of its identity. The next day, I was in my new home, a 20-minute car ride away in Sugar Land. The only change that caught my attention was me getting my own room.

I wish I could say all of my moving experiences were that simple, that I wasn’t affected by any of them, but none of them were pleasant or lacking tears. And I was too stubborn to see every move as anything less than torture.

Five years later, my family packed up its belongings in Texas to move all the way to Great Neck, Long Island in New York. My big goodbye wish was to throw a ginormous sleepover with five of my closest friends, and it seemed like a small compensation on my parents’ side for disrupting the life of a perfectly content 10-year-old.

That night, in July of 2018, the six of us stayed up until four or five in the morning, as long as our bodies could hold out, cramped between two beds – one king-sized and the other a full-sized, in my parents’ master bedroom.

In the pitch blackness of the a.m. ‘s, surrounded by my passed-out friends, I tried to keep my eyes open, tried to savor the few hours of tranquil darkness before the sun would be up and I would have to face the endeavor of bidding them farewell. But the night passed quickly, just like any other night, and the second I told myself I wouldn’t succumb to the force pulling me into the world of dreams, it was morning again.

Then came 11 a.m. My friends left one by one as their parents’ cars rolled up in my driveway to pick them up, and the goodbye was over.

A month later, with my dad and younger brother, each of us carrying a small suitcase, I got on a one-way flight, the destination being JFK International Airport in Queens, New York. My mom had to ride a separate flight to accompany our pet guinea pig, so she arrived a day later than us. But that small, two-story, blue-and-white shingled house was home for the next two years.

Then came Covid, and in the middle of May of 2020, my parents found us a permanent residence a few streets down the rented house we had been living in. It was still in the same city, neighborhood even, but we still had to move.

It was tedious. It always is. Packing up my livelihood into a few boxes only to unpack them in a different location. Just when I seemed to be getting comfortable in an unfamiliar area, I had to leave again.

I used to view it as meaningless to have experienced life in multiple places. After all, it’s the same everywhere, except for minor details such as the weather and having access to a subway as a means of transportation.

I could tolerate moving forward for what my parents told me would be “good for my future.” But when we moved back to Houston in mid-September of 2021, it was my old life staring me in the face.

Except the images of former friends were blurred, the old neighborhood streets repaved, the people in my recollection replaced with strangers.

Five years had passed since I had seen my old friends, since I had talked to my dance teachers, since I stepped into the Tapioca House in the corner across from my dance studio.

Luckily, I would be getting a fresh start with high school, and I purposely chose a school I knew none of my old friends would be attending. I didn’t want any association with the city I left, and when I rejoined my old dance company in the heart of Chinatown, I pretended like I didn’t know my ex-best friends, pretended like I chose to not be included in their tightly-knit circle I was once a part of.

I know people who are sick of living in the same place for 10 or more years. And I don’t have the right to say my time outside of Texas was a waste. It was my life, and I lived it to the fullest I could. But the only thing I have to show for it are my own memories and friends I rarely contact these days.

So I could recommend moving, learning life lessons in each place and house I’ve lived in – how I’ve discovered the beauty of nature, what it’s like to cherish precious mementos for years, the joy in meeting new people and making new friends, the openness to trying new things. All of those individual experiences can be worth it.

I’ve come to love the people I’ve been lucky enough to know, and I don’t hate any of the homes I’ve lived in, no matter how brief the time was. I’ve moved past dwelling on what could have been, all of the “what if I had never moved” scenarios.

The time I lost in one place, every minute of it was spent somewhere else of equal importance, and it all comes together to make up the timeline of my life.

As of today, the first month of 2023, I have two years before I’m off to college. I would be moving, again.

But the apprehension and sleepless nights aren’t there. I plan to move forward with total control.

I will take with me what I know. I will take with me the new things I find. I will take with me the things I see, hear, taste, smell, feel, remember and most importantly, love.