Not my Choice
Those blue handles were my future. Canvas bag, bigger classrooms, coming home after lunchtime. Curled up on my parents’ bed, my four year old self daydreamed about what it would be like to go to school with the big kids.
But my first “big kid” classroom wouldn’t be in Lake Bluff, the close-knit lakeside town where I spent the early years of my childhood in Illinois.The town where neighborhood kids gathered for impromptu baseball games and summer block parties filled our evenings. One morning, my parents sat me down at our kitchen counter—the one with the wobbly stool I loved to spin on—and told me we were moving. “Hong Kong”. The word felt strange in my mouth, like trying to speak with a mouthful of the blueberries I’d had for breakfast.
I remember the last walk through our neighborhood, my small hand in my mother’s as we passed the familiar sights. Ms. Kase’s garden with its swathe of sunflowers; the cracked sidewalk where I’d learned to ride my tricycle; the corner store where my dad bought me rainbow popsicles on summer evenings. Each landmark now felt like a goodbye I hadn’t chosen. Each step was both a farewell and a reminder of the simple joys I’d found in this small corner of Illinois. I learned then that choice sometimes comes dressed as the opposite. While the decision to move wasn’t mine, the way I faced this upheaval was perhaps my first real choice—even if I didn’t recognize it as such at the time. At four years old, confronted with a world turning upside down, I chose curiosity over fear.
Perhaps it was the resilience of youth that let me embrace this change, or maybe just the simple wisdom that comes from having no other choice. While my Lake Bluff friends were learning the patterns of suburban seasons—sledding in winter, swimming in summer—I was about to learn a different lesson: that home isn’t just a place, but a feeling you carry with you. Later, I would understand that this moment marked more than a geographical shift; it was the first time I had to consciously choose between clinging to what was familiar and reaching for what could be. The blue handles of my school bag became more than just a symbol of growing up—they became a reminder that sometimes the best choices are the ones we make in response to having no choice at all.
Hong Kong greeted me with a symphony I’d never imagined: the constant hum of the city, the melodic chime of the MTR metro doors closing, the persistent echo of the Star Ferry’s horn across Victoria Harbour. My new classroom at HKIS had windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, and during monsoon season, I watched sheets of rain transform the city into a watercolor painting. Where Lake Bluff had taught me the rhythm of small-town life, Hong Kong taught me to dance to a different beat—one of subway schedules, crowded streets, and the persistent pulse of a city that never slept. A tempo different from the Lake Bluff kindergarten I’d dreamed of, but magical in its own way.
The blue handles of my school bag still carried my dreams, just different ones now. Dreams of navigating the maze-like streets of Mid-Levels. Dreams of understanding this new world where East met West, where traditional markets sat in the shadows of gleaming skyscrapers. Dreams of bridging cultures: between hamburgers and dim sum, between being American and becoming something newer, something more. These dreams emerged not from choice, but from necessity—and somehow became treasures.
Looking back now, I realize that while the move wasn’t my choice, it became the backdrop against which I would make countless small but significant decisions. Each one—from learning to read a new city’s rhythms to finding my place in an international community—was a tiny act of embracing the unexpected. Together, they transformed what could have been a story of loss into one of discovery. Each hello in a new language, each unfamiliar food tried, each step into unknown territory was a choice to grow rather than retreat. We often think of choices as grand, deliberate decisions that alter the course of our lives. But sometimes, the most profound choices are in how we respond to circumstances beyond our control. My four-year-old self didn’t choose to leave Lake Bluff, but he chose to open his heart to Hong Kong. And in that openness, he found a home he never knew he was looking for.