The Feeling of Attachment

Throughout my life, I have learned that my greatest weakness is the feeling of attachment. Whenever I find myself involved with something, whether a place, a person, or a chapter of life, I hold onto it tightly without even meaning to. And when the time comes to part ways, it never feels simple. It feels like leaving behind a part of myself. Do you feel the same?

In Burmese, we call this feeling "Than Yaw Zin". There’s a song by Lay Phyu that sings about it, and every word feels like it was written from my heart. Because Than Yaw Zin isn’t just sentimentality. It’s the ache of attachment, the inability to simply "move on" without carrying the weight of what we leave behind.

The first time this feeling overwhelmed me was when I left Myanmar for Canada in 2021. The night before my flight, I remember lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, knowing it would be the last night I ever slept in that room as a boy before becoming a university student. The thought filled me with a quiet kind of fear. When it came time to pack my things, I held back my emotions as best as I could. Of course, I was attached; deeply and painfully attached. But there was nothing I could do. Change was already knocking at the door, and all I could do was answer it with whatever strength I could gather.

The second time this hit me harder than I could bear was when my cat passed away. He came into my life unexpectedly, a little gift from fate. Right after I finished my GCSEs, his mother, a stray, wandered into our house, stayed with us for a few months, and then vanished one day without a trace, leaving her kitten behind. We took him in, raised him, loved him.He grew up with me during the last years of my high school life; always around, always close by.

He wasn’t just a pet; he was part of my everyday, part of the atmosphere of home itself. I would find myself looking for him first whenever I came back from school. That was how much I was attached to him. The day I left for university, he walked with me out of the house. The day I left for university, he walked with me out of the house. I called out his name from the car window, hoping for one last look back. But he didn't turn around. He simply continued, heading off into the day, busy with his little cat life. That was the last image I ever had of him.When I heard he had passed away, I cried like a child for days. He was my world for a time, but just like that, he was gone.

Then there was the time I left my internship. In Computer Science, many people tell me that success comes from jumping ships - switching jobs for better titles, better pay. It’s a smart strategy, and for many people, it works. But I've always been a little different. To me, there’s something irreplaceably joyful about growing with something; seeing an organization flourish and knowing you played a part in that story. I always take pride in the work I do, and it's just a plain joy to share the success with people I know.

When I first joined my company, we were relatively small; just around 5,000 followers on LinkedIn. When I left a year later, that number had grown to more than 12,000. It might seem small to the world, but to me, it was a symbol of growth and collective effort. It was proof that we had built something together. Even if my contribution was just a small piece of the puzzle, I think it mattered. On my final day, a few co-workers gathered at the office for a small get-together. We all had lunch together, and talked about life in the future. I tried to say goodbye to all of them with a steady voice, hiding the lump in my throat because deep down, I knew I might never cross paths with these people again. That was a heavier goodbye than I had expected. It was just too hard for me to leave the place after one whole meaningful year.

Today, I write this because I am leaving another home. Today, April 28th, 2025, is my final day at my university dorm, after concluding my university journey after five full years. I moved into my dorm, Saltwater, in 2022 — the newest residence building at UBC when it had not even officially opened. By some stroke of luck, I applied early enough to be among the very first to call it home. I remember moving in, my friends helping me carry bags and boxes into this fresh, empty room, after eight long months of a miserable off-campus housing experience. My life changed here. Being right beside the bus loop, in the heart of campus; life felt golden.

Now, after three years, it is no longer a "dorm room." It is my home. This room witnessed every part of my university life - the long naps after class, the late-night study sessions, the quiet meals, the moments of doubt, the moments of triumph. Every corner holds a memory. And today, I am saying goodbye.

As I pack my things for the last time, the feeling is all too familiar.

The same hollow ache I felt when I left Myanmar. The same quiet sadness when I left my cat behind. The same bittersweet heaviness as when I left my internship.

It feels as if I am leaving a whole country behind. But deep down, it is simply just the feeling of attachment.

"Than Yaw Zin, Than Yaw Zin, Lu Ko A Yuu Ta Bine Phyit Say Tal"

"The feeling of attachment - you make half the body act insane."

— Lay Phyu