Meeting My Parents Where They Are
I grew up in survival mode.
My parents arrived in the U.S. in their twenties after the Vietnam War, carrying nothing but the clothes on their backs and my father’s old army bag. No degrees. No money. Just the relentless will to survive and the hope to have a better future for their children.
In our cramped urban house, they raised five kids on blue-collar jobs that paid the bills but left little room for anything else. Even as a child, I could feel the weight of their exhaustion, the tension in their voices when they discussed mortgage, utilities, or unexpected expenses. Money was tight. So tight that I remember feeling guilty for needing to see a doctor for my, ashamed to ask for money for a school field trip, hesitant to need anything at all.
One summer, our entire family spent months stuffing envelopes—five cents an envelope—just to afford a living room couch. My parents worked endlessly, yet somehow, they always set aside just enough to take us on vacation. Not extravagant getaways, but trips to see family in Virginia, California, or Florida. These vacations weren’t about relaxation; they were obligations. We’d pack our best behavior along with our suitcases, ensuring we presented the perfect image: quiet, respectful, fluent in Vietnamese. Keeping up appearances was part of the itinerary.
Still, my parents held onto a belief: work hard now, enjoy life later. Retirement was the finish line where joy finally began.
Retirement Begins
A few years after I graduated college and moved out of state, they reached that finish line. They retired. They’ve been retired ever since.
But by then, I had cemented an image of them in my mind: weary, burdened, constantly operating in survival mode. It wasn’t just how I saw them—it was how I experienced them. My time with them often felt like an unspoken obligation, a space where old expectations lingered.
For me, vacations became something entirely different—a chance to unwind, to indulge in joy without the weight of duty. My time off was for me, separate from family. Meanwhile, my parents began taking trips of their own: cruises with friends, spontaneous getaways, voyages with no rigid itinerary. And yet, I struggled to reconcile this newfound version of them with the parents I had always known.
The parents I remember were always anxious, always working, always one bill away from collapse. Even now, when I come home, I feel that old anxiety creeping back in. It clings like a bad habit, a subconscious pull toward the past, a muscle memory of survival.
Tomorrow, I’ll pick them up from their cruise. And maybe, instead of expecting them to fit into my world or forcing myself to fit into theirs, I’ll simply meet them where they are—retired, content, finally taking the vacations they once only dreamed of.
Maybe, this time, I’ll let myself see them not as the parents of my childhood, but as people—people who have evolved, just as I have. Maybe, instead of resisting, I’ll lean in. What would it feel like to enjoy their company without the weight of expectation? What if, for once, we could just exist together, free from the roles we once played?
When was the last time you saw your parents as more than just parents? As people with their own dreams, their own joys, their own lives beyond the roles they filled for us? What would it mean to meet them where they are now?