I don’t think people talk enough about what it feels like to live a life shaped by decisions you never made. I didn’t choose my parents. I didn’t choose the timing. I didn’t choose the chaos they hadn’t resolved before I got here. And yet, somehow, I’m the one living with the consequences.
There’s a kind of anger that sits heavily when you realize your life started in instability. Not because life is naturally hard, but because the people who were supposed to prepare for you, didn’t.
I sometimes think: what if I was never born? Sometimes out of hopelessness, and sometimes out of logic. If I wasn’t here, I wouldn’t have to carry any of this. Because right now, it feels like I’m living inside my parents’ unfinished problems.
An absent father who left before I could even understand what “family” meant.
A mother whose presence feels unpredictable, overwhelming, and distant all at once.
And in between all that? Me.
A child who learned too early how to read moods. How to stay quiet to avoid conflict, and how to shrink emotions so they wouldn’t explode into something bigger. That kind of environment doesn’t leave you untouched.
my mother came back into my life, but not in the way people expect. Not as someone I could reconnect with, not even as someone I understood.
It creates someone who is hyper-aware. Someone careful with their words. Someone who feels deeply but struggles to express it.
Then life shifted again.
We moved to my grandparents’ home, and while I carry nothing but love for them, that transition changed me too. Stability came, yes, but so did pressure. Expectations. The need to prove something. To be better. To not become what I came from.
Somewhere along the way, I became: A perfectionist. An overachiever. Someone who struggles to open up. Someone who doesn’t quite know how to build or keep relationships.
Years later, my mother came back into my life, but not in the way people expect. Not as someone I could reconnect with, not even as someone I understood. She feels like a stranger I happen to share a space with. And that’s one of the hardest things to admit.
Because I see other people talk about their mothers like they’re best friends. Like they’re safe spaces, because they’re their homes.
And I won’t lie, I envy that. I wish that was me.
Instead, I carry resentment, anger, and frustration. And it has built up for long because I feel unseen, unsupported, and unheard.
And it’s not just about what happened in the past. It’s about what keeps happening; the instability, the financial struggles, the feeling of being pulled into situations that were never mine to carry, and the lack of protection when it mattered.
And maybe the hardest part? Feeling like the person who should have stood up for you… didn’t. There’s a lot I could say. A lot I’ve held in for years. Words that feel sharp, heavy, and overdue.
But sometimes I wonder if letting it all out would change anything, if screaming it into the world would make it lighter.
I don’t know.
What I do know is this: You can love where you came from and still acknowledge the damage it caused. You can appreciate the people who showed up for you, and still grieve the ones who didn’t.
You can feel anger without it making you a bad person. And most importantly, you are not the mistakes that created your environment.
Even if it feels like you’ve been shaped by them… you are still allowed to shape yourself.
But, as for me, I’m tired of carrying what was never mine to begin with.
