What My Mother Never Taught Me
My mother taught me how to survive.
She taught me grit. Endurance. How to keep going no matter how hard life became.
But she never taught me how to love myself.
I grew up believing—deep down—that if I wasn’t perfect, or at least perceived as perfect, no one would love me. It didn’t matter if the “imperfection” was small.
If I spilled soup, it was my fault.
If I was in the way, it was my fault.
If I couldn’t answer a question, I was stupid.
It didn’t just come from my parents. My siblings absorbed it too. If something went wrong, I was the problem. I was told I was partying too much, not trying enough, not doing it right. And after hearing it so often, I didn’t need anyone else to say it anymore—I carried it inside.
Living as If I Should Be Lucky
I told myself I should be lucky to have someone love me.
- Lucky to have a job.
- Lucky to be where I was.
- Lucky to have an experience.
Even when I had worked hard to get there, I felt I had to downplay it. Humble myself before anyone else could knock me down.
The truth was, I didn’t love myself. I didn’t give myself grace. How could I? My definition of happiness had always been to make sure everyone else around me was happy. And if they weren’t, I failed. I failed a lot from relationships, to my parent’s expectations and I even felt work was a failure.
For a long time, I hated myself. I hated being in my own skin. The anxiety, the pressure, the constant internal criticism—it was unbearable. The only release I could find was cutting myself. I don’t know if I did it to punish myself or to feel something different, or releasing emotions, but for a while, it was the only thing that quieted the noise inside me.
Breaking Under the Weight
I punished myself because I knew I could never meet the expectations my parents had for me. They didn’t even need to say them out loud—they were already built into me. Eventually, I broke. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
When you’re in that place, you have two choices:
You can stay down, or you can start putting the pieces back together.
I chose to get up.
When I came back from Europe, I thought I was “fixed.” But that’s the thing about never learning self-love—it’s not something that snaps into place. The broken pieces don’t mend seamlessly. You patch them. You try again. And sometimes, the cracks reopen.
Self-love is not a one-time project. It’s an ongoing relationship—the longest relationship you’ll ever have. And often, you’re the hardest person on yourself.
The voice that used to be your parents’ becomes your own.
You become the one criticizing, doubting, second-guessing.
That’s where I am now—trying to unlearn that voice, to believe in myself when my instinct is to question everything. It’s not an easy process. I’m getting help. The truth is I can’t “break up” with myself. So the only thing I can do is to keep trying.