This Daughter's Confession

Dear Mom,

There’s a lot you don’t know about me. So much that you may not even recognize who I am once I tell you. But I cannot fathom living my life when you don’t know the real me. Before I tell you my secret, I want you to know that I’m not asking you for anything. No apologies. No defensive rebuttals. Nothing. Just take this daughter's confession and love her still. So, here it is, the one thing I’ve never wanted to tell you.

I desperately want to tell you about my passions. To scream them from the rooftops until my voice is wrecked and the tears of freedom roll joyously down my face. But you’ve never once told me your dreams and I’ve secretly resented you for that.

Haven’t you ever once longed to follow the joys of life? To drown yourself in the happiness that ignites inside you when you do something you’re overly passionate about? I know, sometimes, I can sound nauseating going on and on about all the little things that bring me some resemblance of joy. Such as astrology and writing and being a coach that helps others find their voice and purpose. Yet, I can’t remember you doing this to me. Not ever. Maybe if you had, I wouldn’t have to dissolve this confusion that clouds my clarity.

You did an amazing job raising me and I can only be eternally grateful for the lessons you’ve taught me. However, we cannot be any more different. You gave me a belief system that I have to unlearn. You gave me a lifestyle that I have to revise and edit constantly to remain authentic to myself. You gave me a diet culture that I have to navigate and redefine every time I walk into work. And I know you didn’t know any better because that’s how your mother raised you.

I try to remind myself to be better. To choose love over fear. To forgive and release my anger and this resentment. I try to remind myself every day to commit to always learning and growing. Because when I don’t, I’m reminded of that scene father made on the cruise ship all those years ago when you made me eat a cashew-based curry in an Italian restaurant when we all know that tree and pine nuts cause extreme stomach pain for me.

Don’t get me wrong, I recognize my part in that situation. I couldn't communicate my needs and I was being a stubborn vegetarian while on the graduation trip to Greece that you paid for. But rather than try to say what I needed to, I just sat and refused to eat. I take full responsibility for my part in this. However, I’ve never told you before that I believe it was unnecessary for dad to embarrass me while taking me around the whole ship, scolding me about my behavior. I ate nothing at that dinner; I said nothing when he did that. I was reprimanded for my nothingness.

We may remember this day differently because memories are the projection of our perceptions and none of it is real. Only love is real. But in that moment, you both chose fear and I was the one who suffered for your choices. That passive-aggressiveness only told me that it was not okay to feel my feelings or honor my boundaries.

Speaking of feelings, I am a sensitive adult. I have always been sensitive. I care — often too much — about people and things. I cry. Crying is an expression of my emotions because I have yet to re-teach myself how to verbally express my needs and feelings. I cry when I’m stressed. I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m off the rails livid and cannot say anything out of fear of causing someone else pain. And I’m working on it. Calling me sensitive, a baby, telling me to ‘get over it’ and forcing me to conceal my very big emotions all those years growing up scarred me. It taught me that my emotions are ugly and that my empathy and capacity to care is too much for people to handle. You taught me that I’m not allowed to feel any of these things.

But the truth is, Mom, my emotions are big and they are beautiful. I don’t need to hide them from the world because they’re “too much.” Maybe the world isn’t prepared to hold space for my emotions. That isn’t my problem, though. It’s the worlds'. People have been conditioned to believe that over-sensitivity is weak when really it is the courage to feel in a world full of anesthetized people. It is the body's way of screaming without screaming, of speaking without words, of releasing everything that is hidden and suppressed.

I’m not willing to hide anymore. So when I cry, I need you to see my vulnerability. I need you to hold me and tell me it’s okay to feel these big emotions. Process them, accept them, thank them, and let them go. Stop telling me I’m too ‘sensitive’ as if it is a bad thing. Because it is not. My sensitivity is a miracle. You taught me to care so I care deeply. You taught me to love so I love profoundly. I ask that you are proud of me for this. In the same way I am grateful that I had to relearn it because of you.

I know it’s harsh to hear the words “I resent you” from your kid. Even worse to know it’s a harbored feeling they’ve been carrying around for years. But you know what also sucks? Having carried that feeling for all these years.

I love you. There has never been a doubt in my heart that I love you. I am so grateful that you are my mom and I am proud to be your daughter. Yet still, there are some big emotions I will forever be processing and even more memories of horrible, embarrassing, unnecessary moments that I’ll have to cringe through every time they come up. Resenting you isn’t the end for me. It is the beginning of uncovering an unconditional, eternal love that I can give to you, Mom.

With lots of Love,

Your daughter.