When I was twelve years old, eating Asian pork chops on our dining table, and recounting my first day back to school, I finally uttered the sentence my parents had long given up on hearing.

“Anyways, so I think I’m gonna sleep on my own tonight.”
Sure enough, mom and dad dropped their chopsticks in shock.

It all started several years back when, a few months before preschool, I upgraded from a Winnie the Pooh painted crib to a white, regal-looking “big girl” bed. During past nights, I had been alright within the barred walls; by the time I turned three, my parents rarely needed to wake up, shuffle to my room, and calm me back to my sweet dreams. They were certain that I would be fine with a minor change.

The very first night I tried sleeping in the new, slightly higher, and much bigger bed, I realized something was off. I sat up on my bed, my eyes wide and darting, my little heart thundering. Where was the fat, yellow, honey-loving bear who kept me company in the dark? Where were the walls that have always caught me before I could tumble on to the hard floor?

I raced to my parent’s room, woke my mother up, and dragged her, while still half asleep, to my bed. I sat her there and then told her she couldn’t leave.

“Why?” Mom had asked.

“It scawey in my woom. Please dont go.”

The first day of preschool, my parents dropped me off at the front door, and I tentatively shuffled in to my classroom by myself. I took one look at the peculiar carpets, the towering cubbies then broke down wailing. The teachers tried everything, from bribing me with candy to reading me stories of whiny children receiving coal from Santa, yet nothing could pacify me except for the arrival of my parents.

Luckily, my parents soon found another method to keep in me preschool. People visiting Primary Montessori sure thought it was a strange sight: an Asian girl lugging a pillow so much bigger than her 3 feet frame and dragging a fleece blanket across the floor. Nevertheless, the two objects always stuck by my side; I made sure of it.

I did eventually get over my phase of grabbing items from home and carrying them into my classroom. However, even as elementary school passed and the first year of middle school ended, mom would still have sit on the edge of my bed, hold my hand, and stay till I fell asleep every night.

On September of 2012, seventh grade me was at the bus stop, ready to go back to school. I had excitedly packed my backpack the night before with seven Lisa Frank folders (one for each class), freshly sharpened pencils, and my beloved, new bright pink calculator. As the characters of my favorite TV show would say, I was totes ready.

My neighbor, a girl named Olivia, was also starting middle school that day. I saw her with her pigtails tied perfectly on her head, her eyes big with apprehension, and her hand clutched tightly to her mother’s. This whole scene reminded me of someone else, someone extremely close, so I felt a surge of sympathy for Olivia.

I walked over to greet them.

“Hey Olivia! Hi Mrs. Liu.”

Olivia’s mother smiled while a soft grunt sounded from behind her.

Mrs. Liu looked down at the girl clutching her hand in a vice-like grip (seriously, I thought the woman’s blood vessels were gonna pop) then sighed.

“She’s really nervous to start school. I tried telling her that it’s not that big a deal... but…”

“I can show her around,” I offered. “I think she’ll really like it there once she finishes adjusting. Middle school isn’t that bad; I promise, Olivia.”

Olivia’s head finally peeked out the side of her mother’s legs. There was a strange look on her face, a combination of awe and relief. It threw me off guard since I’ve never seen such an expression directed at me before. For the first time, I felt that maybe I am capable. Maybe I could be that person Olivia and others depend on.

When the bus came, she reluctantly let go of Mrs. Liu, climbed aboard, and watched me silently till I sat next to her.

That night, I went through my usual evening routine; I showered, changed and brushed my teeth. However, when I was ready to go to sleep, I found no one sitting by my night table.

Feelings rushed through me that were so familiar, but foreign at the same time. My bed still had no walls, nothing that could provide me company or shelter me. But I could do it; could face all the vast, dark and empty shadows of my room alone. I was no longer afraid.

After years of gripping someone else’s hands for support, courage, and steadiness, I went to sleep with my own hands clasped with one another.