My parents want the best for me. I know that. I remind myself of it every time we argue or sit in uncomfortable silence.
They talk about my future like it’s something clear and solid, like a straight road with signs pointing in the right direction. Good grades. A stable career. A life that looks successful from the outside. They say these things with love, but sometimes their words feel heavier than my backpack at the end of the day.
When they talk, I nod. I say “okay.” I don’t tell them how unsure I feel most of the time. I don’t tell them that school doesn’t always make sense to me, or that I’m scared of choosing the wrong thing and being stuck with it forever. It feels easier to stay quiet than to explain feelings I don’t fully understand myself.
Sometimes it feels like we’re speaking different languages, even when we’re using the same words. They see effort in results. I feel effort in trying not to give up. They measure success by certainty. I’m still learning how to sit with not knowing.
I wish they could see how hard I’m trying, even when it doesn’t look impressive. How much energy it takes just to show up some days. I wish they knew that loving me doesn’t mean mapping out my whole life for me.
I love my parents. I’m grateful for everything they’ve done. I just wish they knew me—not the version of me they imagine, but the one still figuring things out, hoping that one day we’ll understand each other without everything needing to be translated.
