Like them🧿

I am exactly like my parents, but I’m also nothing like them. I am a completely different person, yet you would look at me and call me their child.

I try to break away, to be something other than their child, but I need to be their child. I am nothing if I’m not their child. If I don’t do anything with my life, if I don’t become “someone,” I will still be their child.

they ask me to do better, be better. when i can’t do it, they blame themselves, saying, how could we expect you to be extraordinary when you have parents like us? Why did you put those expectations on me if this is how you think of yourselves? If you knew I could only jump a few feet in the air, why did you tell me I’ll touch the sky?

My whole life has been about being better than them. at first, they just made sure that i was good at whatever i did. as i grew older, i realised that i’m the next generation; i’m supposed to be better than either of them. it’s all scientific, there’s no questioning it. and so i promised myself that i will always try be better than my parents. i observed them day in and day out, trying to figure out their faults and make a mental note not to repeat them. i observed their good traits and tried to figure out how to make them better.

What’s the point of trying to be better if I’m programmed to be just as good as them? I agree, at the end of the day, I am better than either of them. but I am coming up short when I’m just as good when they are combined.

I want to be better. I want to achieve great things. i want to fulfill my parents’ hopes and dreams along with my own. i can’t let go of the terrifying notion that no matter how hard i’ll try, i’m going to keep coming short because i’m not blessed with good parents. my parents have taught me to try no matter what. what’s the point in trying if i know i’ll never be enough?

and yet, even that feels like a betrayal.

how can i blame them for the things i lack, when everything i have is because of them?

i am stitched together from their sacrifices, their mistakes, their quiet hopes. i was made from the kind of love that is messy and imperfect and desperate.

and maybe that love was never meant to create perfection. maybe it was only ever meant to create me — flawed, dreaming, angry, grateful — all at once.

i don't know if i'll ever be enough. not for them, not for myself.

but maybe being their child — stubborn, aching, trying — will always be enough, even if i never learn how to believe it.