Our generation has undeniably been fed an idealised version of summer. Just as the cast of High School Musical 2 sang its praises when we were younger, we now constantly celebrate summer in exam-term conversations and on social media as a time of rest, travel, and memory-making. This past summer, however, I’ve started to find cracks in the ideal we seem to have collectively created.

Before coming to university, I was privileged enough to have never had to think twice about the realities of a prolonged period away from school: I’m lucky enough to have a home I have always felt very comfortable going back to. Yet as I’ve grown older, I’ve realised that it seems there will always be some aspects of returning home, even to one we love, that can make us feel uneasy.

We should be wary not to erase the variety of experiences students face when May Week draws to a close and our room licenses end

I still recall returning to Hong Kong at the end of my first year and being taken aback by how much I’d changed - but not only until I returned home did I realise this. Giving it some thought, this change struck me as unsurprising: at Cambridge, I had been exposed for the first time to new people, cultures, and causes that had become an integral part of who I am. The physical act of returning home forced me to confront the differences between the person I was raised to be, and the person I am now - and that was an unsettling experience.

For instance, I was always taught the principles of self-sacrifice rather than self-love in my Chinese-Korean family. It was only from new friends and networks like FLY (Cambridge University’s forum for women and non-binary people of colour) that I learnt how to say “no” without feeling guilty or being afraid of appearing selfish.

Realising that I can and should prioritise myself when necessary was so liberating; it changed how I interact with others and how I organise my life. However, if disagreements at the dinner table occur when explaining these shifts in mindset, family dynamics can become slightly uncomfortable.

However, I’ve found these disagreements are seldom discussed, partly because they don’t adhere to the idea of summer we so desperately cling to. When we talk about summer, we never talk about how difficult it is for those who are struggling with their self-image to be constantly reminded of their weight by family members (“you’ve grown a little chubbier, dear, it’s time to hit the gym”); how frustrating it is when racist or heteronormative jokes follow any mention of a friend from a different background to yours; how anxious it can make you feel to be forced to live and interact with people who are really not conducive to your mental health. And, if living at home is too detrimental to your wellbeing, it can be equally draining to have to find and fund your own accommodation. This drain is not only financial, but emotional, as we lament how our summer pales in comparison to what summer should be.

I can only speak for my own experience, and while it is true that many of my BME friends have more pleasant stories to share of their time here, others have stories much worse than my own. I recognise that this approach is not a possibility for everyone. You are in the best position to determine what works best for you - only do what you're comfortable with.

Worshipping the summer holidays is not a harmless act; we should be wary not to erase the variety of experiences students face when May Week draws to a close and our room licenses end. Not until we begin to talk candidly about what summer can really mean will we create an environment in which we can talk openly about our difficulties, and begin to share and seek out practical advice. To achieve this, we must dispel the myth of the perfect summer.