My head was barely over the counter tops. I followed my dad around the kitchen like a little shadow. The aroma of garlic and onion filled the air as it sizzled in the hot pot. With his eyes focused, his hands moved fluidly as he cut up the chicken and added it to the pot. He looked over his shoulder down at me, smiling. He grabbed a stool for me to stand on and suddenly I was in his world. He poured in Datu-Puti soy sauce and suká with water, salt, and black peppercorns, brought the pot to a simmer and added potatoes. He served the steamy dish in bowls with rice for my siblings and me. In this little bowl of adobo my dad cooked in his love for us without saying a word. My head is well above the counter tops now. These barren walls and scratched wooden floors are nothing like my childhood home. But the smells of my kitchen are. On the stove the garlic and onion I chopped myself are sizzling in my pot on my stove, their pleasant aromas flowing into the air. I add the chicken and think of my dad and how hard he had to work to provide for us. I add the same brand of soy sauce and suká. My hands take me through the motions of what my dad did the first time I watched him cook adobo. I spoon it simply over rice in bowls for my friends, fiance, and myself. In a new apartment, in a city far away from home, the same love my dad cooked into this dish shines through now into me for my friends. Food is a vessel for culture and tradition. But ultimately, it is formed by loving hands to provide sustenance for those we love. My purpose in life is to serve others, help others and just like my dad did without words I can say, “I care about you and I love you” in every bowl of adobo, pancit, kare-kare, or whatever I make.

My head was barely over the counter tops. I followed my dad around the kitchen like a little shadow. The aroma of garlic and onion filled the air as it sizzled in the hot pot. With his eyes focused, his hands moved fluidly as he cut up the chicken and added it to the pot. He looked over his shoulder down at me, smiling. He grabbed a stool for me to stand on and suddenly I was in his world. He poured in Datu-Puti soy sauce and suká with water, salt, and black peppercorns, brought the pot to a simmer and added potatoes. He served the steamy dish in bowls with rice for my siblings and me. In this little bowl of adobo my dad cooked in his love for us without saying a word. My head is well above the counter tops now. These barren walls and scratched wooden floors are nothing like my childhood home. But the smells of my kitchen are. On the stove the garlic and onion I chopped myself are sizzling in my pot on my stove, their pleasant aromas flowing into the air. I add the chicken and think of my dad and how hard he had to work to provide for us. I add the same brand of soy sauce and suká. My hands take me through the motions of what my dad did the first time I watched him cook adobo. I spoon it simply over rice in bowls for my friends, fiance, and myself. In a new apartment, in a city far away from home, the same love my dad cooked into this dish shines through now into me for my friends. Food is a vessel for culture and tradition. But ultimately, it is formed by loving hands to provide sustenance for those we love. My purpose in life is to serve others, help others and just like my dad did without words I can say, “I care about you and I love you” in every bowl of adobo, pancit, kare-kare, or whatever I make.

The walls are closing in on you. The voice in my head was incessantly repeating. I was circling the halls during lunch, looking desperately for my friend, Layla. She’d know how to handle this. Finally, I found her. “Are you-” She started, before she was able to get out the word “alright?”, I burst into tears. I didn’t think I could be this stressed. She stood up and hugged me. “Just breathe. You’re gonna be okay.” How did I think being a section leader for the premier choir in our performing arts program mixed with being the president of the Spanish Honor Society, on top of being in my first professional musical and playing field hockey was not going to make me explode with pressure. Not to mention applying for schools and scholarships. I was burning the wick at both ends. Something I never learned to stop doing. But my friends were always there for me for my breakdowns. Without them, I don’t know how I’d ever make it through senior year. Little did I know this was the last time I'd get to hug Layla for a while. When quarantine went into effect my worst fears had been realized. Who am I now that I don’t have a project to oversee, a choir to direct, students to tutor? I’m supposed to know who I am? Suddenly all I was doing was a school from my bed as my depression took a turn for the worse. I lived in the same sweatpants for almost two months and did not take showers or brush my teeth or eat at normal intervals. Doing work was spotty at best when I wasn’t crying. I had no idea I had that many tears in me. No one was okay with school ending like this. But worst of all I had to sit alone with my thoughts 24/7 instead of being at school where I could forget my thoughts even existed in the first place. It’s silly I know, but at the time I was just getting into therapy. I didn’t know how to cope with all of the emotions or even analyze them. Instead, I let them do what they do best. Wash over me and drown me. At the two-month mark, I didn’t know it had been two months. I already have a distorted sense of reality and quarantine made it exponentially worse. Slowly the depression fog was lifting. My teachers were being an unprecedented amount lenient with deadlines. I began to do school work. I did basic hygiene regularly. I started to know what mealtimes were again. And I was able to look at my void. My favorite music artist, Dodie Clark once said, “Every now and then look at your void. Look at that thing that makes you uneasy. And slowly try to become okay with it.” My void was filled to the brim with self-doubt and paranoia. The reason I needed to be the leader was to convince everyone that I could do it in the first place. I had no reason to believe in myself. But I don’t have to have accomplishments to have worth. I’m a human being. So inherently I am valuable and deserve to be respected. It’s easy to zoom into introspection with everyone being on their own. But not everyone was alone; we learned different ways to be together while being physically distant. And with that, we were able to find the crack in our foundation. I’m born and raised a citizen of the United States of America. And I can’t say I take too much pride in that. The more and more we uncover about the systemic racism and white supremacy in our country and blatant discrimination I learn that I’m lucky to be alive now, which is crazy because having said all that you’d think I’d say differently. But as a genderqueer person of color, if I was born any earlier, I’d have been dead by my thirties at best. The world seems to have more problems than we can handle. Sometimes we’re forced to pick and choose. But all we can do is continue to educate and uplift voices and support those who need them to face the institutions that oppress us. Quarantine kept us safe but it did expose me to the many layers that within myself that I have yet to unpack. Similarly, many institutional problems continue to be ignored and we are so desensitized to the violence of the world. I still hold out hope that we can figure out how to exist together but it seems so daunting.