page I of the journal of being a daughter
and to never truly being enough as one.
I don’t get credit for anything — and that’s okay.
I remember introducing my mother to this new ramen shop in the city, where the lights flash, the roads are crowded with cars, bikes, motorcycles, and even those little electric scooters.
I took her there for the first time, and she liked it. Then she went away for a while, and I kept wondering where she was going on those nights that passed — only to realize she’d been going back to that ramen shop without me, but with my new step-parent I barely even knew at the time.
It hurt, but not too much. Still, you never told anyone that I was the one who showed you that ramen shop. And I could go on and on about how good it is, but could I really keep rambling without you getting bored? Without you splitting your attention?
We are just mirrors of each other — you know that, right? The way I treat you is how I’ve felt like I’ve been treated my whole life. I come off as cold, disinterested, when you’re overly-affectionate (which is normal affection to you) I back away, I can barely be held for long until I feel like it’s suffocation — not love.
Being a mother is something I’ll never truly understand until I become one myself. I don’t lack compassion for what you’re going through; I lack experience and time. That doesn’t mean I know any less — it just means I can’t feel it or perceive it the same way you do. Being a mother is something, that I’ll never truly feel, until I am one. But an experience of being a daughter, especially the oldest and when the young one slips from our fingers — I’m all you have left, your only daughter.
You were the catalyst for me becoming a writer. I made every English teacher proud. I held awards to my chest. I became a school leader, a captain in my communities. You told me I could be anything I wanted to be — that I could do anything.
I brought ribbons home. I brought interschool sports awards. I brought you articles and newspapers with my name in them. I left marks on people’s lives, on communities. I even won a national award for my school before, but when all of this is laid out on the table, all you see is my scuffed report card, and you wonder if I’m even trying to build a better life for myself at all.
I slip & I fall. My ego and pride bruised, I stutter amongst my own words trying to gather everything that fell through my hands and onto the floor - scattered. I taught myself to let go of ego and pride so I could never be hurt by it and your words that constantly pierced through me again — but that also meant I lost my boundaries. With no pride left to protect me, there was nothing stopping me from doing everything & anything for everyone, even if it meant begging them to just;
stay & to love me.
signed by your daughter
So very honest and heartfelt. You hold onto truths with your words that cannot be easily spoken.