As I walked to Wilson Hall for a Monday 9 a.m. statistics lecture, I did not expect to spend the class sobbing. And yet, there I was, mid-class, staring at my laptop screen and blinking through tears while my professor blissfully droned on about distribution curves. The culprit? A picture my mom sent of stir-fried fish cakes, glistening with sesame oil and plated next to a scoop of white rice. It was simple, familiar and exactly how I liked it.
While the picture definitely sparked a sudden craving for Korean food, that wasn’t what sent me into an emotional tailspin. It was the fact that my mom remembered every detail that makes me who I am. She remembered that fish cakes are my favorite. She remembered that I hate the mushrooms served with it and instead prefer to have a side of rice. And in that moment, I realized how much I missed being known in the way only my family knows me.
Coming into my first year of college, I quickly packed my bags, said my goodbyes and fully expected to fall into the rhythm of dorm life, new faces and meal exchanges. Homesickness, I assumed, was for the melodramatic. I was wrong. It hit me like a truck, or more accurately, in waves — sometimes small and fleeting, other times crashing over me in the most inconvenient moments. Like in statistics. Over fish cakes, of all things.
As I stared at the picture, one thing became clear — I missed my dinner table. In this new and sometimes lonely place, I longed for the meals that were served on top of it and the people who surrounded it.
Food has always been at the center of my home — not just as nourishment, but as communication. Growing up as a Korean American, I learned early that love doesn’t always come in the form of saying “I’m proud of you” or “I love you.” Instead, it came as a plate of freshly cut chamoe, or Korean melon, slid in front of me silently during a study session. It came as doenjang jjigae, or soybean stew, bubbling on the stove after a long day. It came as banchan, side dishes arranged on the dinner table like a love language spelled out in chili flakes and sesame seeds.
A lot of Asian Americans probably find this relatable. There's something deeply personal about how our culture uses food as a means to express feelings that might be too big, too vulnerable or just too awkward to say out loud. My mom has never been the type to gush, necessarily. But without fail, she will wake up at 6 a.m. to make me a thermos of seaweed soup when I’m sick, and that says more than any string of Hallmark card platitudes ever could.
Yes, there are Asian restaurants scattered across Charlottesville, specifically an overwhelming number of Thai places. But, let’s be honest, nothing compares to the taste of my home — the way my family seasons meals exactly how I like them, the smell of my mom’s kimchi jjigae drifting from the kitchen or the crunch of fresh-cut apples after dinner, handed to me without having even asked. You can’t replicate that kind of familiarity — not in a restaurant, and definitely not at Newcomb.
That’s what I think made my fish cake meltdown so intense. It wasn’t about missing a specific food — it was about missing a specific feeling. The one of being cared for in that quiet, wordless way. When my mom sent that photo, it wasn’t just to say “Look what I made.” The text was a reminder that said “I’m still thinking of you. I still know what you love. You’re still my kid, even if you’re two hours away pretending to be an adult now.”
Asian households are experts in “actions over words.” While others choose to love out loud, we love by doing. By cooking. By remembering tiny details, like your go-to snack or your very particular hate for mushrooms. And while that kind of love might not always be heard, it’s felt — particularly when it’s missing.
Being away from home has made me appreciate this more than I ever have before. I used to roll my eyes at the fruit plate, but now, I dream about it. I used to groan when my mom packed me leftovers to take to school, yet I’d now give anything to have a container of food waiting in my fridge.
And so, when people talk about homesickness, I think they often underestimate just how much of it lives in the stomach, in the tiny rituals that make you feel grounded, like the specific spice of your mom’s kimchi, or the way your family always eats rice with every meal, no matter what.
Food isn’t just food — it’s memory. It’s identity. It’s home.
I’m still learning how to be okay with missing home. I’ve stopped pretending that I’ve figured it all out. And on the days when it’s hard — when West Range isn’t cutting it and my dorm bed doesn’t smell like home — I call my mom. We don’t say a whole lot. But sometimes, she sends me a photo of dinner. And that’s enough.
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