When Reality Doesn’t Match the Movies: Letting Go of the Moments I Never Had

“Don’t get excited over anything, because all you’ll be is disappointed.”

That was my mother’s mantra. It became mine too.

For most of my life, that sentence played on a loop in my head—especially during the moments that were supposed to feel magical. Prom. Graduation. My wedding. The ones that television promised would be filled with glittering joy, meaningful speeches, and picture-perfect memories.

But in my life, those moments never came.

I grew up on television.

Not books—my mom made me write reports after reading, so I avoided them when I could. Instead, I devoured sitcoms, dramas, rom-coms. I internalized what those shows taught me about how life should look: prom night confessions, tearful hugs at graduation, a father twirling his daughter across the wedding floor.

But for me, disappointment became the expectation. That old mantra—don’t get excited—anchored itself so deeply that I started believing maybe I didn’t deserve those moments. Maybe I wasn’t special enough for them.

Prom? My date bailed the night before. I returned the dress and stayed home.

Graduation? I ended up in the hospital.

My wedding? I didn’t ask my father to do a father daughter dance—because I already knew what he’d say.

He’d done it before. For my oldest sister, he disappeared when the MC called his name. For the other sister, he kept asking during  the song, “Is it almost over?”

I didn’t want that. I couldn’t bear to stand on the dance floor alone.

The only thing my father said to me on my wedding day was, “Are you nervous?” It was in Vietnamese, and I didn’t even recognize the word. I nodded, smiled, pretended it was something meaningful. That was all. No encouragement. No emotion. No “I’m proud of you.”

And once again, I felt that familiar ache of falling short of the scene I’d always imagined. Even when I thought I was saving myself from disappointment. 

Recently I’ve started asking a different question.

Not - Why didn’t I get these  moments?

But -  Why did I expect them to?

My mother spent her childhood hiding underground during the Vietnam War, mimicking the sound of bombs to distract her grandmother from the terror above. There were no TVs. No dances. No milestones. Only survival.

She came to the U.S. with dreams of going to school. But life had other plans. Kids. Bills. A husband who didn’t encourage her to chase those dreams. She watched other immigrants take ESL classes, find careers, create new futures. She stayed home and raised her children instead.

My father lost his own father young. He became one of nine siblings and, over time, watched nearly all of them pass away. Only one brother remains—and they don’t speak.

He didn’t grow up learning how to love out loud. And by the time we were old enough to need that, he didn’t see the point in trying.

So how could I have expected a father-daughter dance? Or a teary-eyed moments from my mother?

I used to believe my parents had impossible expectations for me. But the truth is, I had impossible expectations for them too.

They never had examples of tenderness or emotional connection. They didn’t know the weight that symbolic gestures held for me. I expected them to give me something they’d never received themselves.

And yet—they gave me what they could.

A roof. Food. Opportunity. A relentless push to succeed. Grit. Resilience.

It wasn’t soft, but it was love.

My mother’s warning not to get excited? It wasn’t meant to dim my hope. It was meant to protect it. Because in her world, hope was dangerous. Disappointment wasn’t a possibility—it was a guarantee.

As a consultant, I coached other consultants to “meet clients where they are.”

It’s a simple idea: don’t expect someone to already understand your world—step into theirs.

And maybe that’s what I’ve had to learn to do with my parents. I’ve stopped trying to rewrite the story. I’ve stopped waiting for a moment that was never mine to begin with.

Because what I do have are the moments that were real.

Cooking with my mom while she told me stories.

Surprising my dad on his birthday and watching him laugh under a ridiculous sombrero.

Quiet presence. Silent pride. Subtle joy.

They were there. Maybe not in the way I wanted, but in the way they could be.

There is no perfect life. No perfect parent. There are perfect moments, but they don’t come as you expected and if you’re not in the moment, they can just pass without you realizing them. 

There’s just what is—and the grace we choose to offer each other in it.

I no longer need a movie version of my life. I’ve stopped mourning the storybook moments that never came. Because life isn’t made of orchestrated dances and Insta-perfect speeches.

It’s made of the small, genuine, sometimes messy moments we live through.

The ones that don’t sparkle, but still shine in their own way.

There’s no right. No wrong.

Just real.

And for me, that’s enough.