I wrote what follows in this post years ago, but coming across it again now—at this exact moment—feels almost divinely timed. After years of struggle, of uncertainty, of feeling like I had to beg certain people to just let me exist as I am, life is finally settling into itself in a tangible way.
For so long, I was misunderstood. I suppose I still am, at least by those who are no longer invited into—or unwilling to be a part of—my circle. But the truth is, I am who I am because it is necessary—not because I seek validation, but because I refuse to accept anything less than the same kindness, support, and unwavering steadiness that I so freely give to others.
I do not dwell on my own challenges, nor do I complain about my own extenuating circumstances. I do not ask for special treatment. I simply will not be the only one expected to hold everything together while receiving only conditional love in return. I demand respect, not approval.
I see now that the resistance I have often faced wasn’t because who I am clashed with what was right. It was because who I am clashed with the ideas those people had of themselves. My presence, my strength, my unwillingness to bend to their illusions forced them to see things they weren’t ready to confront—or, at the very least, threatened to.
And that is exactly why my parents raised me the way they did.
They knew—they always knew—that life would be filled with people and circumstances that would try to break me. They were intuitively aware of my calling to caregiving—not just for the sick, but for the world in general, even when I was a child. They knew that would be a hard road, and still supported my choosing to embrace it.
They also knew that in my choosing that path, the world would demand I shrink, that others would twist my love and my loyalty into something to exploit, that some would project their insecurities onto me and call it my flaw. They knew that if I didn’t have a solid foundation, an unshakable knowing of myself and my values, I could be swallowed whole by the weight of other people’s expectations.
But I wasn’t—at least, not forever.
Because they prepared me for this. For all of this.
And that’s why, when I read this post again now, I don’t just see a reflection of my mother—I see a reflection of myself. Of the woman I was always meant to become.
There comes a point in life when you stop seeing your parents as just parents and start seeing them as people. It doesn’t happen all at once. It happens slowly, over years, with each new experience that reshapes the way you view the world.
I was raised right. I see that now, clearer than ever. My parents weren’t perfect, but they gave me what so many people lack—a foundation. They taught me responsibility, resilience, integrity, and emotional self-reliance. They instilled in me the kind of strength that doesn’t waver in the face of hardship.
They taught me how to think for myself, how to stand firm in what I believe, how to weather storms without crumbling. And most importantly, they taught me that true strength isn’t about control or dominance—it’s about discipline, self-respect, and the ability to navigate life without being at the mercy of my emotions.
And yet, knowing all of that now, I still carry the weight of regret—because I also know that I didn’t always treat my mother the way she deserved.
I was unkind at times. I was selfish. I resented things I didn’t fully understand. I pushed back against her wisdom, mistaking it for control. I thought her expectations were unfair when, in reality, she was trying to teach me how to be self-sufficient, how to move through life without falling apart at every setback, how to live with integrity even when no one was watching. I didn’t understand then that self-discipline isn’t oppression—it’s the key to real freedom.
I would give almost anything to hug her again.
The pain of missing her is sharpest in the quiet moments—the moments when I wish I could tell her, I get it now. I wish I could tell her that I see what she was trying to do, that I understand now the burdens she carried, the choices she made, and the sacrifices she never once expected praise for.
I think back to all the times I rolled my eyes when she told me to do the right thing even when it was hard. To have integrity, even when no one would know the difference. To never let my emotions dictate my decisions, because making choices based on fleeting feelings almost always leads to regret. She wanted me to be a person who could stand on my own two feet without seeking validation, without needing constant reassurance, without falling apart when life didn’t go my way.
At the time, I thought she was just being rigid. Now I realize she was preparing me for the world in ways I couldn’t yet understand.
And now, I find myself saying the same things to my own child that she once said to me. The irony isn’t lost on me.
If she were here, I hope she’d see that I finally understand. That I carry her with me in every choice I make, in the way I raise my own child, in the way I hold onto the values she taught me. That her lessons built the foundation I now stand on—unshaken, self-sufficient, and unafraid.
I hope she knows that I am grateful.
And I hope that, wherever she is, she can feel the fullest, most real hug I never got to give her—one filled with gratitude, appreciation, and the deepest respect for her wisdom.
The Twin Tree Project 