I drove down to LA this past Halloweekend for a rave. The usual six-hour drive doubled to 12 thanks to traffic and the limits of an electric car. Our plans to get ready and explore the festival kept getting pushed back, my leg bouncing in restlessness as I researched alternate routes, hoping to shave off even a few minutes.
I was going with my closest friends at Berkeley, my freshman year floormates. We were meeting up with my literal soulmates, my childhood best friends who’ve stood by me through my Barbie-princess obsession and my awkward-emo era after losing my mom, all the way to the current heartbroken, healing one. They’ve held my hand through my insanity, polar mood swings and angst. They’re the only people I’ve laughed with to the point where I’ve literally peed my pants — multiple times. As I’ve matured, I’ve started to cry tears of laughter instead.
Even though they can be annoying, never bringing toothpaste to sleepovers and eating all my snacks, they are my Liquid IVs who can resuscitate me back to life.
This weekend reminded me how fortunate I am.
Usually, going out feels like a gamble — it’s either the best night ever or a waste of makeup and time. But last weekend, I had zero doubts; I knew it would be the best night of the year. And it was.
As the streets widened and palm trees multiplied in rows, welcoming us with that unmistakable sense of LA freedom cultivated by baby-blue Levi shorts and spaghetti straps, I knew I was home. We finally arrived in Riverside — rocky mountains, sprawling plazas, not a pedestrian in sight and a pink-ombre sky tucking the sun into bed. I jumped out of the car, restless and dreading how much I’d have to rush to get ready. But when I saw Clara, I sprinted toward her, squeezing her torso ever so tightly, like a rom-com reunion scene in slow motion.
Clara and Rachel were already dressed in their intricate Kuromi and Tigger costumes, with tight tops and miniskirts. Without a second thought, they helped me get ready. As Clara waxed my armpits and Rachel helped me put on uCoolMe manga lashes, I smiled, knowing I’d be ok. No matter what happened that night, all my anxieties lifted because it wasn’t about the rave, it was about dancing my heart out to songs from our childhood in cute outfits with my favorite people. We could’ve spent the night in their dorms playing “Just Dance,” raiding cabinets of Buldak Carbonara ramen and frozen dumplings, and it would’ve been just as fun. Though the rave was a euphoric dream I keep reliving — a liberating celebration of music and humanity — it had far more to do with who I was with.
Although I was dressed up, I felt as if I had my hair loose, face bare, in pajama pants and an oversized hoodie — completely comfortable. We banged our heads back and forth to the drops of the beat. We moved our bodies in the most hideous, uncool ways and didn’t care what a single person thought of us. I knew no matter what I did, I was with people who’d never leave my side.
I’ve been desperately trying to make Berkeley feel like home. I exploit superficial similarities — being Korean or from LA — grasping for connection, hoping to find that same comfort I have with my friends back home. I keep beating a dead horse, hitting a dead end, having conversations about a mutual on Instagram we both barely know.
Now, as a junior walking down Telegraph Avenue, I’m accustomed to the bustling students rebelling against the jurisdiction of traffic lights, intense chess matches in the middle of the sidewalk, endless boba shops, cafes, Freshroll, Sheng Kee Bakery and the heavily guarded Walgreens. Yet I still feel dissociated, as though I’m watching my life through glass. My spirit squeezes my flesh, desperate to feel alive, but I still feel like a machine in a simulation — programmed to keep going in a place that should be familiar but isn’t.
Two years can’t compare to 18 years of growing up with the same friends in the same neighborhood. Familiarity is bred over time, constructing the sensations of a home. I did get lucky with my people and city, but my home was created by suffering, celebrating and loving hand in hand throughout our journeys of life.
And I do love my friends I’ve made at Berkeley. We’ve shared conversations about tariffs, sexual violence, Prop. 50 and existential dread. We’ve twirled bistro napkins atop chairs in Santorini, toured Roman ruins, watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle at midnight and cliff-jumped at Waimea Bay. They’ve seen me share my first kiss with a beautiful Greek boy in Paros, flirt with ugly strangers at frat parties, cry over imposter syndrome and homesickness and heartbreak. They’ve kept me afloat here.
Yet, I don’t let these friends see my armpit hair, I feel guilty eating their food and their parents don’t feel like family. There’s a new boundary that emerges with friendships formed after childhood. It’s different, but I realized they’re a truer reflection of yourself.
These new friendships reveal who you’ve become. They’re not born from playdates coordinated by your moms; they’re chosen. Out of 40,000 people, these are the ones you decide are worth knowing. There are no daily math classes or weekly dance practices keeping you close; it’s on you to plan bake nights and city excursions or decide who no longer aligns. It’s scary but powerful.
Although my dad, Coolies, Potter and Lulu will always be like warm soup on a rainy afternoon — a cozy blanket after a long day — I’m also building a new home. One aligned with the person I’m becoming. And maybe, after another eighteen years or so, I’ll feel the same comfort and warmth, this time in remembrance of the reckless freedom yet journey full of self-discovery during our young adulthood, coming of age.
Home may be the people, but time and nostalgia give them the bricks to build with. Your new friends can one day become your old friends, the ones you realize will never leave your side. You just have to water the seed, prune what doesn’t serve you and nurture it until it bears fruit.
Home isn’t just a person or a place, but the lifelong search for one — through different cities, countries, people, careers and lives. And maybe, all along, that home is found only within yourself.