There was a scene from a series I once saw while scrolling—a moment between a mother, her son, and his wife. It lingered with me, not just because of the dialogue, but because it unveiled something I hadn’t quite put into words before.
My mother believes she knows me. She sees me as her daughter, shaped by the experiences she’s witnessed. But that isn’t knowing me—not fully. She knows the version of me I allow her to see, the echoes of moments she has observed. Yet, she does not know the thoughts that have weighed on my mind, the struggles that have unraveled in silence. She does not know the battles I have fought when no one was looking.
She thinks she knows me. But she knows only the reflection of who I’ve been in front of her—not the depths of what has been.
The moment she spoke, the words came without hesitation—an assertion that I had never known hardship the way they did back then. But what was her point? Was I supposed to experience the same struggles to justify seeking work, to endure a job that drains me?
I believe in the seasons of life, in the ebb and flow that shapes each journey. Not everything you wish for will always fall into place. The tide does not rush to meet you at every shore. No—like the dock, like the shore, everything has its own timeframe. There is a rhythm to when things arrive, when they retreat.
Sometimes, the wisest choice is not to charge forward blindly but to pause—to listen to the tide when it rises, to recognize when the storm makes waiting the better path.
To my father, who sees me only through the lens of my mistakes. Tricky, isn’t it?
I was never the favorite—it was never something I felt. And in the moments when I tried to speak my mind, I was seen as rude. You let your wounded pride dictate your reaction, resorting to physical abuse when my words unsettled you.
I wonder why it was always acceptable for you to speak harshly to us, to offend, to joke with a half-meant sting. And when we hurt, when silence became our response, it was dismissed—just as we were. We let it go, swallowed it whole, because if we spoke, we were the ones in the wrong. We were the ones without respect for you.
Respect, it seems, was only expected when it was convenient for you!
But to my partner—the one who sees beyond both my silence and my noise. Beyond my laughter and my tears, my vulnerabilities and my strength. The one who notices even when I am invisible, and who does not need to chase me when I seek attention.
He sees me.
I have never needed to pretend.
With him, I am raw. Unfiltered. Whole.
He knows me from deep within and from outside. He understood the assignment once I kept silent for a while.
He knows me from all of me.