My mother used to make a nutritious soup, in which the star ingredients were barley, lotus seeds, red adzuki beans, and millet. It was a comforting blend of complimenting textures, altogether chewy, hearty, and naturally sweet. It was, and is, a homegoing soup. She still makes it for me to this day, on those rare occasions that I return to my childhood home and indulge in meals served fresh from the stove, instead of a microwave.

As children of immigrant parents, my older sister and I carried the burdens of two cultures: for not being American enough, despite our citizenship, and for not being Chinese enough, despite our heritage. Our flavors did not blend well into the often cited melting pot of America. The mouthwatering dishes from home-steamed sesame or taro buns, purple lotus root steeped in porridge-caused my classmates to wrinkle their nose and ask, "What is that?!" I dared not bring chicken feet in my school lunches. Moreover, education was prioritized over spending time with friends. College was a destination, not an achievement, and the pressure to excel was suffocating. I felt none of the purported freedom or rugged individualism that America bolsters. Luckily, I had my sister, who faced the same challenges of being Chinese-American and living in unchartered territory. She was a true pioneer in my generation for figuring out the American landscape while her Chinese roots pulled her in the opposite direction. I was less strong-willed, more malleable, succumbing to stereotypes of what I could and could not be. I distinctly remember adults telling me that I could not be an engineer, causing me to veer away from STEM disciplines altogether. I selected a college on the East Coast to separate myself from my culture and my childhood, majoring in philosophy and leaving my parents behind in California.

The newfound independence in college was a bombardment of choices-mainly how to study and what to eat. The first, how to study, was obvious to me: as much as possible. I woke up at 4:00am to take notes from the textbook. I stayed in the library until midnight going over lecture notes. Most detrimental to my health and well-being, though, was my dismissal of my traditional cuisine in favor of the school menu. The ingredients-quinoa, tempeh, kale-were foreign to me, though they have since become more mainstream staples for plant-based diets. Trying to accept a confusing amalgamation of foods, without an accompanying food culture, made me sick-a phenomena explained in Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma and echoed in his later book In Defense of Food. In addition to academics, I was trying to learn how to make the most healthful food choices based on scientific, and sometimes conflicting, evidence. The information was overwhelming. I ate less and less, and ended up in the hospital during Thanksgiving break, less than three months into my first semester of college.

I was fortunate to be with my family during my recovery. After entering college, I was committed to academics, but what I had lacked was connections. My self-isolating drive to succeed forbade me from relying on others for help. My subsequent hospitalization reversed my self-deprecating mindset. The proximity to my family rekindled my recognition of their unconditional support. I also participated in a recovery program that introduced me to the benefits of mindfulness, helping me establish a daily meditation practice to reduce stress and renew gratitude.

I transferred from the liberal arts college on the East Coast to a local community college in Northern California to be closer to my family. I moved in with my sister, but we were close enough to our parents to have family meals on the weekend. In addition to my mindfulness practice, I learned how to cook, making traditional recipes like the nutritious soup in the cartoon, so that I could have a taste of home no matter where I went.

In community college, and later at UC San Diego, I focused on building my support network, making rewarding connections that instilled a much higher sense of purpose than getting top scores in a class. Already speaking Chinese and English, I learned that the languages of STEM could also foster communication and build empathy. I worked and became friends with other underrepresented minorities, learning of their unmet needs, and I transferred to UC San Diego to become a bioengineer that decreases health inequities in underserved communities. I am also pursuing a PhD in biomedical engineering.

Thus, my story of resilience is one of creating sustained relationships through unconditional support. As children of immigrant parents, my sister and I carry the blessings of two cultures. My strong ties to Chinese tradition has given me an anchor in the wild, exciting melting pot of American culture. Instead of recounting the innumerable times my family has supported me, and rescued me, I chose to illuminate their sacrifices and lessons through a metaphoric cartoon. In Chinese, 􀀁t􀀂 (bei guo) literally translates to "carry the pot," and tt.A􀀁 􀀙 (zhao ren bei guo), or "finding someone to carry the pot", is synonymous to letting others

"shoulder the blame" in English. While we code-switched between Chinese and American styles, the intention behind our interactions was rarely lost in translation. I included the cartoon in both Chinese and English, for people who can understand the nuanced differences in the written word of these two languages. Above all, my parents have taught me resourcefulness in the face of adversity. As seen in the cartoon, the blame and burden we have dumped onto our parents, in the form of a pot, later become the very vessel that helps us overcome the barriers we face, i.e. crossing the river without a bridge. In the end, the soup is incomplete without every single one of its star ingredients: my dad as the stalwart barley, my mom as the beautiful lotus seed, my sister as the mighty adzuki bean, and me as the hardy millet. I have no need for someone to pave the way for me, because being part of a reliable and loyal family and cultural community makes me fearless in the face of uncertainty.