"Things I Wish I Could Tell My Parents Without Crying"

1.

I wish I could tell you that I forgive you.

Not because everything is okay,

but because I need to be okay.

Because carrying the weight of what was never said

is breaking something inside me that you can’t see.

2.

I wish I could tell you that I’m tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of measuring my worth in grades, obedience, silence.

Tired of walking on emotional eggshells

just to keep the peace.

3.

I wish I could tell you I’m not who you wanted me to be.

And I know you tried to mold me out of love—

but love shouldn’t feel like a straight jacket.

I’m not broken because I’m different.

I’m just me.

And that should have been enough.

4.

I wish I could tell you about the nights I cried myself to sleep

because your approval felt conditional.

Because “I’m proud of you” came only after success—

never after trying.

Never when I failed but needed love most.

5.

I wish I could tell you I was scared of you growing up.

Not because you were cruel,

but because your silence was louder than shouting.

Because love felt like a reward

instead of a right.

6.

I wish I could tell you that you hurt me.

That words you don’t even remember

built walls I still haven’t learned how to tear down.

That the way you dismissed my feelings

made me feel like they weren’t real.

Like I wasn’t real.

7.

I wish I could tell you that I know you tried.

I really do.

I see it now in the packed lunches,

in the sleepless nights you thought I didn’t notice,

in the sacrifices I only understand as an adult.

And I’m grateful.

Even if it was quiet gratitude.

Even if I never said it.

8.

I wish I could tell you that I needed more.

More softness.

More questions.

More hugs.

More room to say,

"I'm not okay."

9.

I wish I could tell you that I’m not angry anymore.

That the bitterness has softened into sadness,

and sadness into something quieter.

Not peace exactly—

but the beginnings of it.

10.

I wish I could tell you about the things I never shared:

The anxiety I thought was just me being weak.

The heartbreaks I stitched together alone.

The moments I wanted to call you,

but didn’t know if you’d pick up with ears or judgment.

11.

I wish I could tell you that I’m still learning how to love

without apologizing for it.

Still trying to believe I’m enough without earning it.

Still teaching myself that I don’t need to be perfect

to deserve a place at the table.

12.

I wish I could tell you that sometimes I parent myself now.

That when I do something brave,

I whisper, “I’m proud of you”

because I need to hear it.

Even if it’s from my own lips.

13.

I wish I could tell you I understand you more now.

That adulthood cracked open the mystery

of what it means to raise a child

while still trying to survive your own wounds.

Maybe that’s what generational love is—

a patchwork of pain and trying.

14.

I wish I could tell you that I still want a relationship.

Not the one we had—

but the one we could have.

A version where we speak honestly,

cry freely,

and rebuild, not around silence,

but through it.

15.

I wish I could tell you these things

without crying.

But maybe the tears mean

I still care.

That there’s still something worth reaching for.

That even if I’m bruised,

I’m not broken.

Not all the way.

Not anymore.