Leaving Behind a Life I Was Told to Want

Dear Mom,

I hope you know this doesn’t come from a place of hate. It never did. But I can’t keep tiptoeing around the truth just to keep your heart safe while mine breaks in silence.So here it is—raw and real:

I quit.

I’m stepping down from the invisible job I was handed without asking, the one that was never posted but always expected: being your second chance. Your do-over. The living proof that maybe your story didn’t go the way you wanted, but at least your daughter would get it “right.”

I didn’t even know I signed up. Maybe it was that day you looked at me like I was magic after I smacked the remote and it started working again. Or when I spelled “chrysanthemum” in front of your friends and you beamed like I was a trophy you’d won.

Maybe it was when my tears got met with sighs instead of hugs. When my feelings became inconveniences, not signals. Somewhere along the way, I picked up the lesson you never meant to teach: that love had to be earned. That affection was conditional on performance.So I performed.

God, did I perform.

I became your golden child. The good girl. I buried parts of myself so deep I forgot they existed. I read the books you approved of. I kept my voice soft. I wore what wouldn’t embarrass you. I smiled through the exhaustion. I played the part so well, I almost forgot I was acting.

I followed the script. But every time I grew past it, you rewrote it tighter, smaller, harder to breathe in.

Be successful. Be impressive. Be practical. Be quiet. Be obedient. Be the girl who never breaks your heart—even when it breaks her.

And the unspoken rule—“don’t disappoint me”—hung in the air like smoke, choking every decision I tried to make for myself. It lived in your silences. Your glances. The way your mouth tensed when I said I wanted to be a writer. Or move away. Or rest. Or be me.

So now, I’m standing here—hands trembling but steady enough to write what I’ve never said:

I resign.

I resign from being your spotless reflection. From shrinking myself into someone palatable just to earn your pride.

I resign from carrying the weight of your regrets on my back like a legacy.

You gave up a lot for me, Mom. I know that. I see that. I’m sorry you had to. But I can’t keep living like your sacrifices are my debt to pay.

I resign from the guilt. From the pressure. From the fear of becoming someone you wouldn’t brag about.

I resign from being your emotional sponge. From being your unpaid therapist. From trying to fix the ache in your heart with the pieces of my own.

I resign from pretending I’m okay when you introduce me like a success story, without ever asking how I really feel.

I resign from chasing your approval like it’s the finish line of a race I never wanted to run.

Because I’m tired, Mom.

Not just tired—soul-weary. Body-tired. Tired from performing a life that doesn’t fit me. Tired from being the girl who always says “yes,” even when everything inside her is screaming “no.”

Tired of confusing being loved with being obedient.

I know you had dreams. I know life shut doors you didn’t deserve to have slammed in your face. I’ve heard the stories of who you could’ve been.

But I’m not the sequel to your unfinished story. I’m not your redemption. I’m not your proof that it all meant something.

I’m not here to fix what broke you.

I’m here to live—and I want to live out loud.

I want to mess up. Gloriously. I want to wear things you hate. Date people you’d never choose. Fail at things that matter to me. I want to cry and laugh and change my mind. I want to write poems instead of résumés. Get tattoos. Start over. Walk away. Begin again.

I want a life that feels like mine, even if it looks like chaos to you.

I’m not ungrateful, Mom. I’m just done pretending that love should cost me my identity.

I’m done pretending that who I am is only lovable if she fits your mold.

I love you, Mom. But I can’t keep breaking myself into pieces just to fit inside your idea of “success.”

From today, I’m free.

I release myself from your dreams, your plans, your quiet hopes that I’d be everything you weren’t allowed to be.

You can hold onto those dreams if you want to. Or you can find new ones. But I won’t carry them anymore. I won’t be shaped by them anymore.

I know this will hurt. I know you’ll be angry. I know this may feel like betrayal.

But for once in my life, I’m okay with disappointing you—if it means I can finally breathe.

Because if being loved means being caged, I’ll take the risk of loneliness over the guarantee of captivity.

You raised a girl who could carry the world.

And now, I’m choosing to set it down.

With love, but no longer with obedience,

Your daughter—not your dream.