The pork belly crackled in the cast iron, the rice cooker beeped. The aroma of minced garlic and glistening green onions rose from the stove, and drifted out the window. We danced around the kitchen catching up on our day. Soon we would hear the familiar click of the door unlocking and swinging open as another friend came home from work. We would greet her by chasing her with a pair of tongs and laughing before going back to the sizzling meat and piling it on plates. Once we’d filled ourselves to the brim, we would slump in our seats satisfied and sleepy from the warm summer breeze, and decide what movie to watch or game to play.

This is how I spent most of my summer evenings: cultivating friendships with several other Asian women on campus, creating bonds that I had never known in childhood. On the weekends we would go grocery shopping in Philly Chinatown, walking past the stalls of colorful fruit and fresh fish on ice. I can’t read all the signs nor recognize all the different fruits and vegetables, but as I walk alongside my friends, each step feels more familiar, and this place feels more like home. During my childhood, these smells and sounds were a reminder of an absence, a loss of roots and culture: this summer, as I fill this absence with memories of friends, they signify my reintroduction and reclamation of my cultural identity.

After we’ve strategically picked out the freshest ingredients, we return home to start preparing. We delegate tasks such as chopping, marinating, and making rice before we stand over the stove, mouths watering and watch the meat cook. Once we’re finished eating and we’ve cleared the plates; we sit and watch a movie or frantically scream at each other while playing video games.

When we first met we were reserved, eager to start a friendship but a little guarded. Slowly we shared everything about our lives, from nerding out about our academic interests to opening up about relationships with our parents. I realized these friends, whom I could trust and lean on, who grounded me, were becoming home. Many of the conversations tended to tie back to race and what it means to be Asian. Our friendships developed from an openness to listen and learn about each other’s different fears and struggles, and a sense of solidarity grew among us. While we are all different kinds of Asian American, we know what it feels like to be alone in a room, to have to navigate stereotypes, to second guess ourselves, to want to prove ourselves.

As the summer progressed, I realized how much I valued coming home to my friends after a day of work at my predominantly white college, where I often feel put in the position of educating, explaining, or appeasing. When I walked through the doors of the resident house, I could just exist. Instead of presenting myself, I could just be myself. Now I’m able to laugh with them until I’m doubled over and there are tears in my eyes.

Recently, many of those late-night conversations have ended with tears and lots of hugging because we were reminded of the fragility of our rights. During the day we can use work and other projects to distract ourselves and delay our emotions. We can turn off our phones and pretend away the instability from our lives. But at night those looming thoughts eventually seep their way into the after dinner deep conversations. And in these moments of helplessness and fear, I hold onto my friends tightly and feel less alone in a room with people who can understand me and share some of my worries.

When I worry about the uncertainty of the future, I like to remind myself of how far I’ve come; my friends remind me of this growth. They remind me of how far I’ve come since high school hallways of racial isolation and self-hate to a predominantly Asian friend group in college.

These friendships were the product of communication, honesty, and trust. We’re open with each other, even if it’s uncomfortable. When I think about the friendships that I’ve made and strengthened this summer, I’m empowered. I’m proud of myself for being patient, for growing and taking the time to find friends who support and understand me.

During periods of uncertainty, I try to look towards the aspects of life that we can control. To me, the people whom I chose to let into my life, whom I chose to make memories with, whom I chose to be vulnerable with, make me feel more equipped to handle the rough seas that are the ups and downs of life. They are my strength, my greatest weapon as I move forward in life.