For years, I struggled to name my childhood experiences as trauma, believing that since I was never physically abused and always had food and shelter, my emotional wounds somehow didn't qualify. Yet the subtle undertones of conditional love and emotional neglect left lasting imprints that I carry to this day.
My parents, though well-intentioned, were emotionally immature. They existed in a state of disconnect – not just from my emotions, but from their own. Every display of sadness or anger was dismissed as unnecessary, my tears met with comments about how they made me "look ugly." My feelings weren't just invalidated; they were treated as inconvenient disturbances to be silenced.
The dynamics with each parent played out in distinct ways. My father seemed to struggle with having daughters instead of a son, once sharing a fortune teller's prediction that he would have a boy at 60. When my parents visited us after three years apart, his immediate gravitation toward my son without acknowledging me at the airport spoke volumes about our relationship. His need for enmeshment manifested in controlling behaviors, down to deciding if my shoes fit properly or not.
My mother's relationship with me was tinged with competition rather than nurturing. I remember her visible distress when strangers would comment on my beauty surpassing hers, and her eagerness to revisit the nurse who would annually reassure her that I hadn't "outgrown my mom's beauty." Her later attempts at reconciliation – like when she called to reflect on my toddler years, crying about memories of me inching away from her during our arguments – showed glimmers of awareness but didn't lead to lasting change. Even in recent family reunions, she would attempt to induce guilt when I chose to have an evening out without her.
Yet here I stand, finally ready to embrace the acceptance that comes with understanding. I see now that my parents' limitations weren't personal rejections but reflections of their own unhealed wounds. Their best efforts, though falling short, were given within the constraints of their own emotional capacity.
This acceptance isn't about excusing the past but about choosing a different future. As I raise my own son, I carry these lessons like lanterns, illuminating the paths I won't take. And in this journey of breaking cycles, I hold hope that should I stumble in my own parenting – as all parents inevitably do – my son will one day find his own path to acceptance, just as I have found mine.
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