As the youngest child in the house and someone who excels in her classes well, my mom thought I had it easy when, in reality, I didn’t.
My mom always considered me as a child who doesn’t need help because she thinks I can always manage for that is how I always portray myself. She always thinks that I can manage everything well.
But I don’t. My relationship with my mom is my biggest insecurity when it comes to family, for I saw how good my friends' relationships with their mothers were. Even my sisters.
I heard one of my classmates telling her mom that she was tired, and she comforted her. One cried to her mother’s shoulder when she failed that one subject. One called her mother to fetch her from school because she was sick. One was fetched by his mother because of his headache. One was laughing at her mom’s jokes.
My elder sisters always dare to tell our mom how they feel. Telling her how they feel stressed with their studies and things. They told her how tired they were, and my mom would offer them comforting words.
Seeing those scenes aches my heart and envy fills my heart. I can’t help but wonder, are their relationship with their mothers that good that they can tell those things? Why is my sister’s relationship with our mom good? Because one thing is for sure for me, I can’t ever.
I can never tell my mother that I’m sick—whether severe or not. I can never ask her to fetch me from school because I can’t handle the sickness I’m feeling. I can never tell her that I’m stressed with things or that I’m slacking off from my studies. I can never do that. I’m barely seen laughing at my mother’s jokes, we were barely seen together alone. My mother doesn’t help me as often as she helps my sisters.
Some said that perhaps I didn’t try connecting with her, but God knows that I tried. I’ve tried. I’ve tried to open up to my mom, to share my anxieties and frustrations. But my words always seem to get caught in my throat. I fear her judgment, her disappointment. I fear that she’ll dismiss my feelings, tell me to "just try harder" or "stop being so sensitive" because, after all, I’m her I-can-do-it-all daughter. So, I keep my feelings bottled up inside, a silent burden I carry alone.
I can’t help but hope, that in another life, I can cry on my mom’s shoulder.
Maybe in another life, things will be different. Maybe in that life, I’ll be able to break down those walls, to let my mom see the real me. Maybe in that life, I’ll finally find the courage to cry on her shoulder, to share my burdens, and to finally feel truly loved and accepted. But until then, I’ll keep hoping, keep dreaming, keep searching for that connection, that understanding, that love.
