My parents left everything behind so I could have more.
That’s what they tell me when I complain about school or say I’m tired.
That’s what I tell myself when I feel like giving up.
They left their families, their language, the streets they grew up on. They came here with suitcases that didn’t hold much and hopes that held too much. I’ve heard the stories so many times they feel like facts I’m not allowed to forget. How hard it was at first. How lonely. How scared they were. How they did it for me.
When I struggle, I feel guilty. When I get overwhelmed, I tell myself I’m not allowed to be. My parents worked double shifts. They learned new rules in a new country. They accepted jobs they never wanted so I could have choices. Compared to that, my stress feels small, almost embarrassing.
But the pressure doesn’t disappear just because I understand where it comes from. It sits with me every time I get a bad grade, every time I’m unsure about my future. It feels like failing isn’t an option, because too much is riding on me. Not just my life, but their sacrifices, their dreams, their belief that coming here was worth it.
Sometimes I catch myself choosing what I think I should want instead of what I actually want. Practical plans. Safe paths. Things that make sense to explain. I don’t let myself imagine anything risky or uncertain, because what if it doesn’t work out? What if I disappoint them after everything they gave up?
I love my parents. I am grateful in ways I don’t always know how to express. But gratitude can feel heavy when it turns into responsibility. I wish I could want things for myself without feeling selfish. I wish I could fail sometimes and still feel forgiven. I wish I could carry my parents’ sacrifices with pride instead of fear.
Maybe one day I’ll learn that honoring what they gave up doesn’t mean disappearing inside their expectations. But right now, I’m still trying to figure out how to be thankful and still be my own person at the same time.
