I Thought I Knew My Story
Sometimes, love doesn’t save you from feeling unloved
This is for her, I love you always, Mom.
The weather was warm, and mornings at home were my favorite.
I walked down to our dining room and smiled when I saw that freshly cooked food was ready on the table, birds were chirping, and the sun rays lit bright through the open doors and windows.
My mother was always passionate about making sure her kids were well-fed, happy, and fulfilled. Her dream was to become a mother. Not necessarily a stay-at-home mom, but she wanted to be present as much as she possibly could.
One of her ways of showing us she’s available was through her cooking. Rather than flowers, she prefers a basket of fruits and veggies. One day, I got creative and gifted her a bouquet of them for her birthday. She was ecstatic.
Growing up as a perfectionist, my mother always dreamt of a happy marriage with healthy kids and a safe home for her to grow old in. But life isn’t perfect, and she loved her kids more than anything.
As a Southeast Asian, divorce is a taboo topic to become in our community. Especially having a religious father like her dad, leaving a marriage was unheard of and not a simple matter one could just bring up at the dining table.
But to our surprise, he was agreeable to the circumstance and was supportive of my mother’s choice. So a few months later, she settled her divorce and gave us a better life. And for that, I owe her everything.
Almost a decade later, I’ve now got a job, two degrees, living abroad in my favorite city since middle school. A dream life, don’t you think? But not only until a few months ago, my whole reality was shaken.
For the longest time, I used to joke that I was a textbook case of “daddy issues”.
I mean, who was I kidding? Falling for the guy who only texts after 10 PM, turning into a full-time therapist in every situationship, and spiraling the minute someone gets hot and cold — yeah, I think the signs were pretty clear.
Blaming my father was easy — the story practically wrote itself. But I didn’t realize I’d been so focused on the obvious villain, while I missed the slow plot twist written in love, comfort, and a little bit of denial.
I was staring at all the truths I’d neatly filed under “not her fault”, refusing to challenge the what-ifs that rose each time during my therapy sessions.
But when parents split, there are always two sides to the story. As much as I hate to admit — and yes, I’m proudly Team Mom (bias fully acknowledged) — I know that’s the truth. Whether I agree with it or not, everyone’s entitled to tell their version of how it all unfolded.
My father was my hero — based on pictures at least. I don’t really remember much, but it looked like we had a close father-daughter bond.
What lingered wasn’t his story, it’s the weight of how I felt near him — anxious, unworthy, fearful, and judged. That alone told me everything I needed to know.
A few years after they parted, my mother eventually remarried. Now, I might not have had the chance to witness how she ended up marrying my father, but the second time around — I saw it unfold from start to finish, right beside her.
Looking back, I can see how some of my deepest fears of abandonment weren’t just born from absence, but from presence that came wrapped in sacrifice and silence.
My mother stayed. Fiercely. Stubbornly.
She believed in second chances the way some people believe in gravity — like it was always worth falling for.
She didn’t mean to, but she taught me to stay too long. To chase the ones who promised they’d stay, even after hurting me. To believe that change was just one more heartbreak away.
She’s part of the reason I mistook endurance for intimacy and persistence for connection.
My fear of abandonment, it turns out, didn’t just come from the parent who walked away — but from the one who kept staying for all the wrong reasons.
This revelation nearly split me in half — it felt like the ground beneath my life had been pulled out from under me. I couldn’t bear the thought that the one parent I trusted to protect me was also, in her way, part of the same abandonment charade.
Time and time again, I wrestled with myself.
One side clung tightly to the mother I adored — the woman who gave me everything she could, who held our world together even when hers was falling apart.
But the other side began to whisper the truths I had long buried:
The times I had to be the adult.
The guilt I felt for needing too much.
The way I learned to shrink myself to keep the peace.
The silence I carried when I felt unseen but didn’t know how — or if — I was allowed to speak up.
The overgiving, emotional stretching, quiet fear that if I stopped holding it all together, everyone might leave.
It was heartbreaking to realize that all those years I thought I was comforting her, holding her up, and being her safe space — she wasn’t the only one who needed an embrace.
I did too.
I needed someone to notice the weight I was carrying, someone to ask how I was doing without me having to fall apart first. I was so busy being what she needed, I didn’t know I was quietly longing for the same in return.
In the midst of the quiet war unraveling inside me, I came to understand that two truths could exist at once.
But how can two opposite truths co-exist, you asked?
Yes, it’s hard. It’s hard to understand, to accept, that the person you looked up to could also be a part of what wounded you.
It’s hard to hold love in one hand and pain in the other. To speak honestly about both without feeling like you’re betraying either.
But healing isn’t about choosing sides.
It’s about making space for the whole story.
It’s allowing the complexity to exist without needing to simplify it.
Because she was both.
And I was both —
both the child who needed more,
and the daughter who loved her deeply.
I know she tried her best. And I love her—not just for her strength, but for the lessons she taught me in her own imperfect way.
I’m here because of her.
Because of her, I’ve found the grace to forgive what my father could not be. And learned that I don’t have to carry what doesn’t belong to me anymore.
My greatest gratitude will always go to her for this: she gave me the chance to choose differently.
To love more gently.
To leave when love stops being kind.
To decide what my story looks like moving forward.
I may not be able to rewrite history, but I can write the future that heals me, thanks to her.
So, I thought I knew my story. But maybe this is where it truly begins.
For everything you were, everything I’ve become, and more— thank you, Mom.
Forever & always.
Love,
Naomi.
