I've never said this out loud.

Hi mom, I've never said this out loud before, but I don't like you. I can't escape the fact that I love and care for you. It is a part of me—you've instilled it so. But the more I grow up and navigate all the complexities of life you tried so hard to shield, the more I'm realizing how ill-equipped I am to face them.

I understand you. I do. I understand all the sacrifices you made immigrating to this foreign, unknown world, was at the behest of losing a connection with me. I understand to give me this bright future in America, you chose to teach me English instead of your mother's tongue. I understand you gave up a future where we could communicate and build a loving relationship, so that I could build one with the people here. I understand, I understand, I understand.

But you took it too far. You were only thinking of the future you wanted for me. You tried to give me everything you thought I wanted, instead of asking me what I wanted. When you grow up not making any decisions, being given everything, being told what to do, what to like, what to hate, and never being asked what you want or hope or dream... you grow up not knowing who you are. You grow up an image of what others want.

Sometimes I sit there and I am astounded by the fact that I don't know what I want, even in the simplest of things. I turn to others, what do they want? It doesn't matter what I want. Do I want that? Do I? I don't know.

You fostered a life for me where I had to hide what I loved, what I desired, what I desperately craved and didn't know how to express. You sheltered me from exploring love and loss. And now I am scared to explore at all, and venture into that unknown.

I understand you have a lot of regrets in the way things panned out. I understand you want more here, between us. I understand you wish you raised me differently.

But so what then? I think that's why it's so hard for me to say that despite understanding why you did the things you did, why you are the way you are, I still don't like you, as a human being. Because why didn't you do something about it? You were scared. You were uncomfortable. You let it be.

The more I learn who I am as an idividual—what I want in life, what I fear, what I desperately need and crave—the more I realize you remind me of the worst parts of me. The fearful, selfish, insecure sides of me. As I try to develop into the best person I know I can be, the more I realize the demons I am trying to overcome are what I inherited from you.

When I am staring down the barrel of fear, I think of you. When I am tensing up in anxiety and discomfort, I think of you. When someone explodes into anger and screams at me, I think of you. I think of everything you did and didn't do. What I wish you would have done, and sometimes, rarely, what I admired you did. I don't know what to do with that.

I don't think it's fair of me to tell you either. And that's why I've never said this out loud. What could you possibly do with the fact that I don't like who you are? Change? How incredible if you could—people would line up at the door to learn how to change the darkest parts of them.

I don't want that. I love you enough to not want you to change. I'd rather love you as who you are, than selfishly ask you to change into something I like or want.

I wish you could've done the same when you were raising me.