A Letter of Resignation from Living Someone Else’s Dream.

Dear Mom,

I hope this doesn’t sound like I hate you. I don’t. But I need to say this like I mean it, and I’ve spent far too long softening my truths to protect yours.

So here goes: I quit.

I resign. Fully. Finally. From the role you never said out loud but made very clear—your second chance. Your backup dream. Your proof that even though life didn’t go the way you planned, at least your daughter would color inside the lines.

I didn’t realize I had signed the contract so early. Maybe it was the day you told me, “You’re not like other kids, you’re smart,” after I fixed the TV remote by slapping it like I saw you do. Or when you paraded me in front of your friends, spelling big words like I was a spelling bee mascot in pink tights.

Maybe it was when you sighed at my tears like they were interruptions, not feelings.

But somewhere along the way, I learned that being loved meant being useful. It meant being impressive. It meant making you proud—even when it made me small.

So I became your star. Your little prodigy. I read books I didn’t enjoy. I smiled when I was tired. I learned to dress “presentably,” speak “respectfully,” and keep my voice down in rooms where I should’ve screamed.

I did everything right.

And somehow, it still wasn’t enough. Or maybe it was too much. Maybe I shined so hard it burned both of us.

Because every time I outgrew one version of your dream, you stretched it to fit me tighter. Be a doctor. Or a lawyer. Or at least someone with a “real job.” Don’t make too many mistakes. Don’t ruin your name. Don’t dress like that. Don’t talk back. Don’t disappoint me.

That last one—*don’t disappoint me*—was the real leash. You never had to say it out loud. I heard it in the silence after every A-minus. In the passive-aggressive jokes when I cut my hair. In the way your face tightened when I said I wanted to write. Or rest. Or move away. Or not come home.

So here I am, standing in the ruins of all the “yesses” I never meant, writing the letter I should have written years ago:

**I resign.**

I resign from the position of *perfect daughter*. I resign from being the mirror you keep polishing, hoping to see your 19-year-old self staring back at you.

I resign from pretending your sacrifices are my debts.

I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t ask you to give up your youth for me, your dreams for me, your body for me. I’m sorry you did. But I won’t keep living like I owe you for existing.

I resign from the guilt. From the pressure. From the fear of letting you down, even when the version of “you” I’m scared to disappoint is just the voice in my head that sounds too much like yours.

I resign from translating your love, decoding it from duty, guilt, and conditional praise. I resign from being the therapist you never paid for, the peacekeeper between you and your own grief, the sponge that absorbs your anger because I’m the only one who won’t leave.

I resign from smiling when you tell your friends I’m “doing so well” while not once asking me how I actually am.

I resign from chasing your approval like it’s the last bus home.

You see, I’m tired. And I don’t mean tired like “I didn’t sleep well.” I mean tired like *my soul has stretch marks*. I mean tired like *I keep showing up to a performance I didn’t audition for*.

I mean tired like I’ve confused love with obedience for so long, I don’t even know what freedom feels like.

I know you had dreams, Mom. I know life didn’t turn out the way you wanted. I’ve heard the stories—how smart you were, how beautiful, how all the doors seemed open until they slammed shut. I know you feel like you could’ve been so much more if things had been different.

But here’s the thing: I’m not your redemption arc. I’m not your restart button. I’m not your tidy ending.

I’m a full human being. Messy. Loud. Afraid. Curious. Tired of shaping myself into something admirable.

I want to be a disappointment, if that’s what freedom costs.

I want to make choices that scare you.

I want to say no to things you think I should say yes to. And yes to things that would make you flinch.

I want to wear the ugly dress. Date the wrong person. Fail at something big. Get it tattooed on my ribs. Wake up one day and decide to change my name. Or not.

I want to live a life that doesn’t make sense to you—but makes *sense to me.*

I’m not ungrateful. I’m just done.

I’m done performing. Done carrying your unlived life on my shoulders like an inheritance I didn’t want but was too afraid to give back.

I love you, Mom. I do. But I can’t keep pretending that love and erasure are the same thing. I can’t keep shrinking just so you’ll recognize me.

From this moment forward, I release myself. I untether. I break character. I walk offstage.

You can keep your dreams. Or you can dream new ones. That’s your business. But I won’t be the clay you mold anymore.

I know this will hurt. I know you’ll be angry. I know you might not speak to me for a while. But for once, I’m okay with that.

Because if being loved means being caged, then I choose loneliness over a lifetime sentence.

You raised a girl who could carry the world.

And now I’m putting it down.

Sincerely—but finally,

Your daughter. Not your project.