I’ve often wondered what my life would look like if we’d stayed in Sitiawan. Maybe I would’ve moved to Kuala Lumpar for work, like so many others. Instead, I spent most of my school years in the UK, where nothing ever quite felt familiar. I didn’t know how to fit in, even though I wanted to so badly. My lunchbox never looked like anyone else’s - from spam fried rice to chicken curry noodle soup and steamed egg with pork patties. I was often questioned about what I was eating, and why mine was the “smelly” lunchbox. Even when it was innocent curiosity, I became so embarrassed of my food I would often “forget” my lunchbox to buy the beige pasta in the school canteen.

Food wasn’t as central to daily life in the UK, and the days felt quieter, smaller and plainer. I was always aware that my life at home was different: different food, smells and rhythms. So I learned how to adjust and explain myself. It wasn’t until I got older that I realised how lucky I was. What once made me feel out of place was actually something I’d been given — a connection to my culture and family. Now, I feel proud that I grew up holding onto those traditions. Even after so many years away, they’re still the first thing that comes back to me.

When I think of Malaysia, I think in colour: bright plastic stools, bowls of green chillies in soy sauce, and banana leaves stained with sambal.

Maybe that’s why, every time I go back, it hits me immediately. First the air, then the noise, then the smell of food drifting in from somewhere I can’t see. It feels like exhaling after holding my breath for too long. Standing at arrivals, surrounded by luggage trolleys and half-asleep faces, I already feel lighter — before the appetite even kicks in. I only speak basic Malay, enough to get by when ordering food, but I still feel more at home there than I ever did growing up in the UK. You don’t need to speak the same language to understand each other when you share the same culture.When I’m sitting around a table with my relatives, someone is always getting up to grab another dish. Someone is always asking if I’ve eaten enough. Someone is always insisting I take more.

Plates slide across the table, bowls are passed around, and recipes are debated before everyone laughs and moves on. From the outside, it probably looks loud and chaotic. To me, it feels calm and familiar.

And every time I’m there, eating with them, I’m reminded that this is how my family has always shown up for each other. Through food. Through effort. Through care. It’s something I carry with me wherever I go; in the things I cook, the way I feed people and the way I try to look after the people I love.