I was sitting in a beautiful circle of people this past weekend listening to learned and healthy eating habits growing up.

And yet, safe and comfortable as I felt, after thinking the topic over, I could not speak up.

I swallowed lumps in my throat as I slowly realized that some of my new "friends" when I first started college in Hawaii shamed me for taking my extra restaurant food home. They'd tease, hand me the ketchup bottle and ask if I wanted to take that, or the soy sauce and chopsticks, too. Young, still timid, and wanting more to get the attention off me than anything else, I laughed along and went with it.

I thought back to when I was growing up and tried to remember what "habits" my mom taught me about eating. Restaurant meals were a rare treat, a luxury to look forward to on birthdays or occasions. No, she didn't tell me about the kids in Africa, or for me to eat the food in front of me or not at all. We learned to cook rice from scratch at a young age and snuck ramen or eggs onto the stove when she wasn't looking. Some days, my four-year-old, nine-year-old self pretended to learn to appreciate the earthy taste of mungo or sitaw, swallowing it down with bated breath because there really was nothing else to eat. I learned to save my pennies and quarters from a young age so I could walk to the neighborhood mom-and-pop for my very own Shin Ramyun and Hi-C on the regular, especially during the boring, humid island summers. But even when my mom gently scolded us for being finicky kids, she wouldn't let us forget where we came from, either.

"You're very lucky to have this," she'd say. "When I was a kid, there were 12 of us siblings and we'd work on the rice farms, in the mud, every day. Sometimes all we had to eat was soy sauce/salt and rice. Some nights we just went to bed hungry." On other occasions, she'd tell us stories of good days. "Sometimes your aunts and uncles and I would go outdoors and play til dark, past our curfew," she'd say, her eyes going soft. "When we got home, Tatay (Grandfather) would be waiting by the front door with a temper and a switch. But I'd catch frogs for us to fry for dinner and hurry over with hugs and kisses to placate him."

As a kid, it was tiring to hear at times. But it truly ingrained values I don't regret. To this day, when I restock my cupboards, seemingly shabby and shameful in the presence of guests, I remember when rummaging and putting together a bowl of rice, tomatoes and fish sauce as a child was enough of a treasure for me. Eating seafood reminds me of my father's fishing trips and how we'd get fresh clams, sea snails, octopus, sometimes even duck or a random creature - more of a justified use of time off, an enjoyed precaution than a luxurious pastime. I rarely partook in these younger memories, but I'd try, try and eventually appreciate it years later. We weren't always so unfortunate growing up. But my parents made damn sure they were resourceful with every bit of their time. Though living in LA is rough, nearly every single thing I do is a reminder of how more fortunate I have become thanks to my environment then. This modest apartment and struggle of a hustle comes with a purpose, and is definitely more than I ever daydreamt of sitting in my 3rd-grade math class, and sometimes just more than I can say.

And some days, I'll admit - that guilt is harder to live with than the gratitude.

I didn't understand it then, but the simple, yet stark differences between myself and my exact equivalent of Hawaii peers was surreal. And so are the reasons behind all the other odd things I do. But the beauty of a habit isn't really appreciable unless the owner takes the time to discover it, too.

To all my #1stGens, this one's for you.

I see you.

I understand you.

Just know, it's more than okay to be you.

Rock on.