my best friend's brother's mom

John’s sister (1) was originally my best friend’s childhood friend. We attended the same high school but didn’t get to know one another until the height of COVID. John’s sister was sweet, funny, and easily likable. Everyone would always say, “Everyone loves *insert her name here*.” She wasn’t the most self-assured person I knew but seemed kind. When we started hanging out, she was going through a tough time. She and her girlfriend had just broken up. Not everyone in our town is small-minded, but not everyone is accepting. She felt comfortable talking to me about it, and I was happy to be there for her.

We quickly grew close. We would hang out every Friday night, and I always stayed over. We spent so much time eating, watching TV, walking, and talking. (Was there anything else to do during COVID?) I understood what it was like to suddenly lose someone you cared about deeply. It wasn’t a breakup, but I lost my best friend. My best friend at the time and I would spend every waking moment together. We were video chatting or messaging one another when we weren’t together. We even watched TV together over the phone. One day we weren’t friends anymore. That was the first painful loss I experienced, and I didn’t forget it. Even though I am past it now, it took time, and I knew how hard that could be, so I wanted to support John’s sister in any way I could. I sat there while she cried and listened to her reexamine the relationship repeatedly. I listened to her question whether she did something wrong to cause the relationship to end. I listened to her, wondering if she would ever find someone again. I listened to her asking if she was innately unlovable. I sat and listened.

I sat and listened for months. It seemed to get better at some points, but it was primarily the same narrative over and over and over again. I didn’t mind the repetitiveness at first; I was sympathetic. I would have wanted someone to be there for me while going through something similar. So I sat and listened.

I would tell her that she didn’t do anything wrong. I would say to her that she was going to find someone again. I would say there were so many things to love about her. She may have been listening, but it didn’t matter unless she knew those things for herself. I knew that all too well.

I began to notice a pattern. I was right when I suspected I could tell her hundreds of times that she didn’t do anything wrong, she would find someone else, and she was lovable, but she didn’t believe it. Not only did she not believe it, but I wasn’t sure she wanted to. 

Thank you for revealing to me the true nature of relationships. All relationships are perfect mirrors, reflecting where we have room to grow.

The more time I spent at John’s house with his sister, the more I noticed John. He was cute, and I suspected he might also have a crush on me. John had shoulder-length brown hair and soft hazel eyes. He only had one dimple that appeared every time our eyes met. John drove a Mustang Shelby GT-500, which I convinced him to teach me how to drive. Our relationship developed slowly and quickly (COVID created a strange time vortex). Neither of us had a job then, so we would spend several hours together every other day talking, watching TV, tossing the baseball around, going to the beach, getting coffee, eating, and enjoying one another’s company.

John was closed off at first. The infidelity from his previous relationship left him guarded. His barrier softened over time, and so did mine. John and I were similar and yet complete opposites. He was fiery, passionate, loving, and fiercely protective. He was also assertive, impulsive, hotheaded, and sensitive. I embraced his softer side, which led me to appreciate my vulnerability. Through my relationship with John, I discovered how playful and silly I was. This surprised me because, historically, I took everything so seriously. I fell in love with my playfulness and other unearthed dimensions of myself. I honestly never loved anyone the way that I loved John. He truly saw the seen and unseen aspects of me.

I have only been in a couple of relationships. I don’t have many dealbreakers other than the obvious ones, i.e., no abusers of any kind, dishonesty, or harmful people, whether conscious or unconscious… don’t be an asshole, and I am sure things will work themselves out. (Maybe those aren’t obvious, but those are my preferences.) My main dealbreaker is children. I have always wanted to be a mom. If I learned early on that someone didn’t want to have kids, I would be out the door no matter how great they were. About a week in, I told John that I wanted kids by around the time I was thirty. He was twenty at the time and said that was more than okay. I was delightfully surprised. I didn’t notice our four-year age gap much during our relationship, but I knew this was important to state before things got serious.

John and I began our relationship when I was still figuring out what I wanted to do career-wise. I received a serendipitous offer to interview at my current firm. It had taken me years to get to this point, and I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I didn’t necessarily know much about private equity, but I wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity I was fortunate enough to receive in the first place. John was stuck in a similar way I had been for years. I was empathic and remained as patient as possible. 

I saw a future with John; I wanted him to be the father of our children. (As I write this now and our breakup is fresh, I still wish everything could have worked out that way.) The more John struggled with finding a job, the more I saw my vision of our future family and us slipping. I tried to remain supportive and patient. I tried to come up with suggestions and solutions. I ran out of ideas because I had gotten so lucky with finding my job; I didn’t have a formula for him. I didn’t want to tell him what to do. I didn’t know what to say to him, and I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell him anything. Nothing changed. 

There was a fine line between being a supportive girlfriend and becoming someone’s mom. Historically, I have always taken care of other people. I had always taken it a tad too far and cared for them so much that they didn’t know how to take care of me when the time came. A friend once explained this tendency via a metaphor: when hawks create a nest, the male hawk ventures out to gather the materials, and the female hawk puts everything in its place. (Don’t quote me on this; I am far from an ornithologist, let alone a hawk expert.) I am the kind of person to get the materials for the nest and build the nest on my own. This pattern is my responsibility and something I am still working out. It was hard to try not to do everything I could for John. Even though I was out of ideas, I knew we would be in a codependent relationship if I crossed that boundary. I waited. Nothing changed.

While I waited, I experienced an unexpected empathy for my mother. Only while I was waiting did I understand what it must have been like for someone she loved so much to struggle, and there was nothing she could do. All I wanted to do was make things better for him, but I couldn’t. I came to appreciate this about my mom. My mom cared about everyone, from her children to random servers we would never see again. She was endearing and had a soft spot for young black women like my grandmother. My mom strived to make things nicer for everyone around her. Sometimes she would put so much energy into people, and it was either a) not reciprocated or b) she didn’t take enough care of herself. I have the same shadow. I will take care of everyone else before myself when the person that needs that care most is me.

John lived at home, which was okay at first. Who was I to judge? I was living at home when we first met, too. I began noticing how living at home affected him and his mental health. John, his sister, and their parents were all under one roof. When I was at home, my mom reminded me every day that it wasn’t a permanent solution and I needed to figure out my life. My parents never moved back home after they were eighteen. Things are different now; it’s far more acceptable for college kids to move back home to save money. Still, they thought my situation was abnormal, as did I. Additionally, neither of my parents wanted to see my potential wasted. Hence, they encouraged me to be independent by any means necessary. John’s mom was different; if she had it her way at the time, not only would John live there for as long as possible, but also, when we got married, we would move in and have our family there (I’m exaggerating?). (John’s cousins (his mom’s sister’s children) live next door with John’s aunt and uncle. They are both in their late thirties. My Italian friends lived at home with their parents until they got engaged. There is nothing wrong with that because that is the norm in Italian culture and others. It’s just not for me.) I looked around and realized that while I assumed everyone would have to become self-sufficient and move out eventually, that was evidently not the case.

John’s family is full of traditional Italians, and he is also traditional in some ways. I didn’t mind that. What I did mind was that it seemed to stunt his and his sister’s growth. (John’s sister eventually moved out only when she had a long-term boyfriend.) John’s mom is an enigma. The more I think I understand her, the more I realize I don’t. I used to believe that John’s mother’s goal was to keep him there forever. That may have been true, and she only realized that that wouldn’t happen as long as we were in a relationship, so she seemed to get used to the idea. That may have also not been the case; I can’t know for sure. There was a lot of chaos in that house, which I will keep private because while I am open to telling my story, I didn’t ask permission to air their dirty laundry online (which everyone has). I will say that she spoke to the people around her, including her children, in ways I found unsettling. I could have been sensitive because of how my mother talked to me. The way she spoke to John upset him. To make things worse, they seemed to have a codependent relationship that was keeping him there. (I am not a therapist and do not use the word codependent flippantly.) He said it was hard to concentrate on his future while he was in the house. I suggested he move out. He said he needed more money. It was a catch-22.

This was a cycle that recurred for two years. John would want to move out so we could begin our lives together. The dream was alive and well. He rediscovered his love for computer science and taught himself while looking for a job. We knew that that would take time, so we remained patient; there was no rush. I wanted him to be on a path he was passionate about. One day his mom would say something unsettling to him, and he would spiral downward. He would decide he needed to do everything he could to move out. The urgency began. Sometimes John found a temporary job that was a quick fix, didn’t like it, and quit. Sometimes he couldn’t find anything, which was equally, if not more, frustrating for both of us. He found his relationship with his mother distracting; he said that was holding him back. He still had trouble finding a way to move out. He wanted to leave but couldn’t. John and his mom would reconcile. There was less urgency to move out because things were good again. Things would stay calm for a while. Appreciating the peace, we would dream again. John and his mom would get into a fight. Here we go again and again.

I loved John so much. None of this changed how much I adored John or how much he loved me. I believed in our love so much; I would have done anything to keep it. Every time he said he would do everything he could to create the career of his dreams so we could move out and have children somewhere down the line, I was hopeful. The cycle happened one too many times. How much I loved him didn’t seem enough to break him out of the cycle if he was unwilling to find a way out. Slowly it sunk in that he wouldn’t be holding me back from the one thing that mattered the most to me; I was if I allowed it to continue.

I am sorry we didn’t work out as we hoped this time. No matter what happens, please know that I am eternally thankful for how you led me back to the most authentic parts of myself. I found what I cherish so much about myself through you. I wish you all the love and success I know you will have.

I got to know John’s family very well. Seeing his mother, sister, father, and him all interact was one thing. Meeting his cousins and extended family put everything into much greater perspective. There was this pivotal moment when I was having dinner at their house: John and I were sitting at the dinner table directly across from John’s sister’s boyfriend and John’s sister, respectively, with John’s mother at the head of the table. The puzzle fell into place. 

I had never met a mirror like John’s sister. She is the only person I had encountered where when I looked at her, I thought, we are the same. I first suspected we had something in common when she commented on her body in a less-than-positive way. I didn’t think much of it because, sadly, it’s common for women to do that. John’s sister constantly questioned her lovability and, thus, her value. I have continuously questioned and negotiated my value for my entire young adult life. I noticed we had even more profound similarities when I saw how she interacted with the world around her.

Victim consciousness is utterly insidious. When I say someone has “victim consciousness,” I refer to people who refuse to take responsibility for their own lives. I can understand and honor how controversial this is because I am not the first person to address this concept. How much of our lives is within our control v.s. How much is predetermined is a debate that has existed for centuries. You could look at this from a philosophical or religious perspective, questioning nature vs. nurture or predeterminism vs. fate. There is also a more grounded aspect, e.g., how much power do people in marginalized groups have to determine their futures when pervasive systems of oppression constantly work against them? What about children? (People love to bring up babies and children.) Do they choose the unspeakable things that happen to them? I do not have the answers to these questions. I do not have the answers to these questions. While I am here, let me also acknowledge that while I am black, I grew up with a lot of privilege that affords this perspective. Nevertheless, when I see people with so much potential, their only roadblock is themselves, and they refuse to do anything about it, I say they are stuck in victim consciousness.

John, his sister, and I are privileged in many respects. There are no excuses. I didn’t understand what it meant to “hold yourself back.” Why would anyone want to do that? To remain precisely where they are. Years ago, I was listening to a talented, grounded, seasoned, and multidimensionally aware shaman’s podcast. During the episode, he said that if people are stuck, they need to speak to the part of themselves that wants to remain stuck. I remember when I was living with my mom, and she called me out for not getting a job so I could stay at home. Not wanting a job so I could stay at home? What?! Did she have a screw loose? Why would I ever want to stay here with her constantly yelling at me to get a life? I wasn’t insane, after all. On some level, she was right. I was comfortable at home. That was her favorite word, comfortable. I was uncomfortable, too, especially knowing that I was disappointing everyone around me, including myself. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. I may not have thought that consciously, but my actions spoke otherwise. Nothing changed until I was willing to risk my comfortable situation for something that would push me to grow. One night, I cried to my mom about the interactions between John and his mom. I was babbling on about how we needed to help and get him out of there. I stopped mid-breath and realized that, on some level, he wanted to be there.Otherwise, he would have left a long time ago. He liked his space. He liked living in a house. He liked the things his mom did for him (mostly). He liked having someone take care of the unknowns, so he didn’t have to think about it. He wanted to be there. Oh, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I found myself in John and his sister in different ways. John’s sister would constantly complain about certain things in her life and make no effort to change them. That ended our friendship. It was unhealthy and codependent. I am the kind of person that wants to help everyone. Helping people that don’t want to help themselves never works; it’s exhausting and distracting from what needs attention in your own life. I don’t know how she is now, but I only wish her all the success because I know she is more than capable. When I looked at her across the kitchen table as her mom passed around the spaghetti (2), I realized I needed to do everything I could to get my life on track. Otherwise, I condemned myself to the same blame-victim loop as the people surrounding me. I was no different.

I don’t know how much is predetermined and how much is free will. My guess is this: I believe that we have a soul/spirit with specific qualities and questions we come to Earth to explore. I also think all those qualities have a light and a shadow. John’s sister and mom are both powerful women. Just like everything else in nature, they have light and shadow. We may choose the core qualities and visions we want to embody as souls, which may be predetermined before we land earthside. However, light and shadow give us options regarding how we want to express our energy. We choose whether we want to express our light or shadow. Let me emphasize that there is no “right,” “wrong,” “better,” or “worse” choice. It is simply a choice. I have been in my shadow for so much and have learned so much from it. I have learned an innumerable amount of lessons from John’s sister’s, John’s mom’s, John’s, my father’s, and my mother’s shadow. The Shadow is just how I learn. I am sure people have learned from my shadow. This isn’t an excuse to be awful to other people. I wouldn’t appreciate someone saying, “I’m sorry about that. I was just like totally in my shadow at the time.” No. Our shadows exist as vital opposites so that light can exist and vice versa. They don’t need to go away; I don’t think that is possible. We must be aware of and responsible for how our shadows impact others and ourselves.

I love you.

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(1) Disclaimer: Anything I write about anyone in my essays results from my subjective, human, and imperfect perspective. None of my essays aim to portray anyone negatively; that would be unfair, as this is my side of the story. I do not claim 100% accuracy of anything but my perspective, mainly because I have not had contact with some mentioned people in several years. We all grow and change.

(2) There is another layer to this story (because there are always more layers). While driving with my mom back from Canada, we discussed my cousin’s relationship. My cousin has been in a relationship with a Portuguese man for ten years. I don’t know many Portuguese people, but their family is highly patriarchal, even more so than in Jamaica. My cousin’s boyfriend lives with his parents (as he has his entire life), his brother, his brother’s wife, and their respective children. They are all under one roof. My cousin has tried to get her boyfriend to move out, and he refuses to move anywhere outside a five-mile radius of his mother’s house (I am not kidding). His mom does everything for him and expects his future wife to take care of him like she does now, i.e., take on the role of the mother for her son. My cousin and her boyfriend’s mom get along, but that isn’t who she is.

As I said earlier, there is nothing objectively wrong with this. Every culture has its norms and customs. My mom made it clear that she believes it is far from okay for a man in his late forties to be living with his parents and continuously refuse to move out with his long-term girlfriend. She thinks he is comfortable and has no reason (in his mind) to disrupt his life. This conversation showed me how much freedom and independence, especially for young women, are essential to my mom. My mom and grandmother have done so much to escape the patriarchal systems prevalent in Jamaica. I am not saying America is perfect; however, compared to many countries, we have made so much progress regarding opportunities for women. My mom was worried I was in a similar situation to my cousin. Moreover, she was especially sensitive to this idea because of everything she has been through to ensure her daughters didn’t find themselves in a similar pattern. She worried that I would end up with someone who couldn’t care for themselves and that I would take care of them. When I watched everyone pass the spaghetti around, I realized I was worried about that too. Sitting at the dinner table with John’s family highlighted how much self-sustainability, self-sovereignty, and self-empowerment mean to me. I didn’t know it before because I wasn’t even close to any of those things. I have grown a lot and come into myself more since then. I am not perfect by any means, but I changed a lot from when I first met John. What was okay at one point wasn’t anymore. This is not to say I couldn’t wind up with someone from a historically patriarchal culture, but I do not see myself conforming to its gender norms and expectations.

crème brûlée

I don’t know that I knew true love before you. Words like “kindred spirit,” “soulmate,” and “twin flame” are so mainstream nowadays that they almost feel empty in comparison to what I feel for you. Contradictally, you are my soulmate. You are the most profound teacher, friend, lover, healer, visionary, mother, father, and child. Every day you are on my mind, consciously and subconsciously. You always reveal new dimensions of humanity and lead me into a deeper experience of my heart. I love you.

The way I understand “soulmate” is it reflects the infinite-dimensional relationship container we share with the omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient force that is the fabric of everything. It’s a highly creative, undefinable, and mysterious entity. I don’t think you need to believe in it in the same way that I do (or at all) to derive value from this essay. I only believe in two things: 1) everything is Nature, and 2) everything in Nature is synchronous. How you describe “Nature” or the fabric of life is up to you. No one can say what happens between death and life; I wouldn’t trust anyone who says they know. This liminal space is the birthplace of our interpretations of The Unknown. All I know is what I believe holds space for everyone’s comprehension. None of our human observations of The Unknown are “right” or “wrong” because they all create one another. One wouldn’t exist without its sacred opposite. That’s why I think it is silly to argue about things like this. 

My favorite question is, “What do you think happens between death and life?” Often, I find that how people answer reveals what they need to heal, how they can grow, and thus, what they came here to offer. How we comprehend The Unknown is like the chicken and the egg conundrum. What comes first? Does our relationship with The Unknown inform our relationships? Do our most influential relationships inform our relationship with The Unknown? It could be neither or both. I believe our relationship with The Unknown reflects our relationship with the most influential person in our lives and vice versa. That significant person reflects what we have to heal, where we can grow, and what we have to offer. Subsequently, our relationship with that important person is reflected everywhere else. Those who reflect our relationship with The Unknown and continuously guide us are our soulmates. I refer to that most significant person as the “original soulmate.”

My original soulmate is my mother (1). I think there is something special that we begin our journey on earth in her (2) bodies. As someone who can currently feel a soul floating in my aura, I imagine a time I was hovering in hers. What gifts did I have to bring her? How would I guide her? Why did I choose her? How would she become my most meaningful guide? The Mother has been a powerful archetype and metaphor for understanding The Unknown. Thus, I refer to The Unknown as Mother Earth/The Great Mother/The Cosmic Mother. (There are infinite, equally powerful valid synonyms for this undefinable energy. It holds boundless space for creativity. One of the reasons I like riffing off of The Mother is because we all have one in some form. We all started our lives there, within her; it’s grounding and universal. (A lot of this language can be ornate and inaccessible, which doesn’t help anyone connect.))

I didn’t always know how meaningful my relationship with my mother was. I only suspected I might want to start questioning things when I started having recurring dreams about her. Every full moon, I would dream the same dream. The setting and additional characters in the dream would change, but the feeling was consistent: I was always angry at my mom. It was such a powerful, visceral feeling that I could feel it in my body even after waking up. I even found out that I was grinding my teeth at night intensely during those dreams. I couldn’t explain the anger. On the surface, everything was fine enough. I didn’t think there was anything about our relationship to warrant such a potent and physical response.

I can’t imagine what it was like for my mom to raise two children in a new town that couldn’t be further from how she grew up. My mom was born in Jamaica and moved to Toronto when she was young. I don’t think she had experienced the disproportionate homogeneity of my hometown beforehand. My parents agreed to move there because it is a nice, safe place with a phenomenal education system. My parents may not be together now, but education is one value they have always shared. When my mom reminisces about my grandmother, she always emphasizes how much my grandmother valued education. Education was power and a privilege people like us didn’t always have. My parents are both black but value education for slightly different reasons. My dad is American through and through. He deeply values the privilege of education because he appreciates that there was a time when that was unavailable and illegal. Education quickly became one of the ways for him to even the playing field and create opportunities for generational success. I admire that he respects our family’s history and continues to find ways to move forward. Jamaica is an exceedingly patriarchal society (in a different way than America). My mom did not want to give birth to eight kids with no life or viable future. If she had stayed, one of the best-case scenarios would have been entering the hospitality industry. That wasn’t enough for my grandmother or her. Education was freedom from that cycle. My grandmother did everything she could to ensure my mom and the other young girls she “adopted” had an excellent education. My parents see education as a means for power, freedom, and success. Those are vast oversimplifications, but you get the picture.

Despite the benefits of the distinctive educational system, it must have been hard for my mom to adjust to living there. Things got better when she made some close, genuine friends who weren’t like the other typical women she would run into. It wasn’t uncommon for the mothers who chose to stay at home to look down upon mothers that needed or decided to work. After all, if their husbands made enough money for the family, why work? I don’t think there is a right or a wrong choice; however, we must respect one another’s choices. My mom’s friends are incredibly hard-working, independent, and inspiring. They all value having something for themselves that they created and continue to add value to the world. More importantly, they have always been nonjudgemental and supportive throughout all of the phases of my mom’s time there. Still, her open-minded friends were not the majority. How do you survive in a town like that? You blend in.

I don’t know the details of my mother’s early days in my hometown, but my mom and I share something in common: we care about how people perceive us. Who doesn’t? Presently and collectively, we have come a long way in embracing diversity and individuality. There is still room for growth, but I can only imagine what it was like in the nineties. Blending in doesn’t matter as much when you’re in elementary school. Kids are cruel at any age, but they don’t directly determine your future. Around the time I was maturing into a young woman was when adjustments needed to be made.

I remember when my mom took me to straighten my hair for the first time; it was so painful I cried. The pain seemed worth it because I finally had straight hair like my mom and counterparts. I was smiling beside my sister in my mom’s photo of us at the apple orchard. I wasn’t aware that straightening my hair was only the beginning of blending in. Much more work was needed, and my mom was there to ensure it was done correctly. My mom would constantly criticize me for how I presented myself. It wasn’t personal; she did it to my sister, too. She would comment on my hair, clothes, and lack of makeup. I am a pretty laid-back person. I like to feel good about myself but prefer to leave the house without a stitch of makeup and with minimal effort. I didn’t want to put more than fifteen minutes into my hair every morning. My mom gave up on the whole makeup thing because I advantageously inherited her nice skin and wasn’t into it. Besides, many people have occasional bouts of “bad skin”; that was more permissible. What was more important to her were my hair and my clothes. The whole black hair journey is such a mystical experience. It takes either time, money, or both to make it look “acceptable.” I was willing to spend the money to straighten my hair every couple of months but couldn’t get myself to invest the time. I didn’t want to wait for leave-in conditioners to do their job, put in curlers, or sit under hair dryers which would take hours of my time. I did not want to venture to the salon to pay someone for these services. I would wash and blow dry my hair every week (bad idea) to keep it looking “acceptable.” It wasn’t enough. “Why don’t you add some curl to it? It would look so much nicer.” I could deal with the minor criticisms here and there because I had grown numb to them. I knew they weren’t personal, so I tried to shrug it off. However, those minor criticisms would sometimes escalate into huge fights where I would think to myself, “Didn’t this start as a comment about my hair?” The small comments about my hair were easier to ignore; these arguments were another animal. “Why don’t you add some curl to your hair?” morphed into “You’re so lazy and lack initiative.” or “You’ve never had to work hard for anything in your life. You’re not going to accomplish anything if you keep this up.” Sometimes it would be, “You’re so selfish and self-centered. Why don’t you spend all of the extra time you have doing something for someone besides yourself? Because you don’t care.” or “I am disgusted by you. You’re delusional, fake, and disappointing. I can see right through you and whatever you present to everyone else; I know who you are at the core. I could say much more, but that would be too cruel.” It was always something along these lines. As a child, it isn’t easy not to take these words personally, especially from someone you expect to love you unconditionally.

I had that dream for years. Every full moon, like clockwork, it recurred. At some point, the feeling transformed from this intense, raw anger to an immense sadness. Every dream ended with me sobbing uncontrollably. I could always feel the intensity when I woke up. I have heard that anger is a secondary emotion, i.e., sadness is at the root of anger. Those dreams were always eerie. I increasingly began understanding why I harbored so much resentment toward my mother. We didn’t have those extensive arguments all the time, but the tiny criticisms had pilled up. Because I refused to acknowledge how much those comments hurt, they overflowed and spilled into my dream space. 

My mother’s love wasn’t conditional, but that is how it felt. If I could find a way to look presentable, e.g., find a way to make my hair look good, wear nicer clothes, etc., then she wouldn’t yell at me, and subsequently, I wouldn’t feel like she hated me. I subconsciously found ways to avoid those arguments. I did everything I could to avoid these criticisms. I took it too far when I assumed looking “presentable” meant being thin. I wanted, no… needed to be perfect. I had received enough criticism from my mom; I didn’t need it from strangers. My mom had her way of getting by; this was mine.

When I was younger, I didn’t understand that it was never about my hair or clothes; it was about survival. For example, white girls can wear messy buns, and people think it’s cute. If my hair were messy, people would think I was simply a mess that didn’t care about her outward appearance. I was thrilled when I went to college because it meant I would wear whatever I wanted without my mom having something to say about it. I was in a space where my survival tactics were seemingly not needed (even though some of them subconsciously followed me there). When I wore those same too-short shorts or tops sans bra at home, my mom had something to say about it. I liked my shorts and braless look (#freethenipple was popular back then). She said I looked like a streetwalker. (I looked like an average college student in 2016.) That was another thing I learned: white people can openly talk about sex and express their natural sexuality wherever or whenever they want. If I did it, people would judge me, I would never get a job, and my life would be over. This went for all expressions of sexuality, no matter how subtle they were, including my clothing choices. Furthermore, I needed to watch what I wrote in an age where it is more normal to be open in online spaces (such as this one). I love writing and storytelling more than anything else. I began journaling at five and blogging when I was in middle school. I have always been a writer. I’m not claiming that my journal entries always made sense (I’m pretty sure some letters are backward in my first diary) or that anyone would want to read whatever nonsense I wrote in middle school. I shared my first “real” writing with my mom and was so proud of myself for finally publishing it. She said it was stupid and that I needed a reality check.

I had a dream once featuring my mom having a full-on meltdown. She was shouting about how she didn’t feel loved when she was younger. No one listened to her and her emotions, leaving her feeling unseen and unheard. I yelled back at her, saying that my sister and I presumably had issues because her unhealed traumas were passed down to us like venom. My whole family was there, yelling and screaming at one another. It was so chaotic. 

At one point, my mom ran away. Unexpectedly, she transformed into a baby. I picked her up and held her. My sister offered to hold her, but I insisted I do it.

All in all, my mom just wanted to protect me. People, especially people on the internet, aren’t kind. We like to think we know people on the internet because we have become accustomed to liberally sharing so much, but we don’t know one another. She didn’t want all of these people that don’t even know me to make assumptions about me. After all, the world is often crueler and more presumptuous regarding black women. My mom protected her vulnerability. A friend once compared her to crème brûlée: a shiny and polished thin layer of sugar protects a much softer, sweet substance underneath. That’s how we are. I have always wanted people to see the thin layer of curated perfection. I rarely reveal the smooth, sweet layer underneath.

What I initially seemed to take away from my mom (whether she intended to convey this) was that it was essential to do everything in your power to control how people perceive you. I wanted to avoid judgment and criticism at every cost. Does this work? Yes and no. Sure, you can curate the dimensions of self you allow people to see. How they perceive you is a combination of conscious and subconscious biases that other people themselves don’t even have control over. Nevertheless, I tried. I tried with my hair. I tried with my clothes. I tried with my body. I tried with what I revealed to certain people at certain times. I tried with what I kept hidden. It half worked in that I always felt close to belonging, but “close” was never enough.

Thank you for continually guiding me toward the most profound vision I hold within my heart.

I spent my sophomore summer in Northern California for an internship. I was lucky to stay with some family friends while learning the area. It was my first time there, and I had the best time exploring the mountains, forests, hills, beaches, etc. A couple of hours before dinner, I decided to go to a beach close to the house to enjoy the sunset. I took a book I had purchased earlier from a small, independent bookstore and began reading. As I thumbed through the pages, I stumbled across a passage that genuinely changed how I saw people from that point forward. Essentially, the passage communicated that whenever we are triggered by another person, e.g., upset, angered, jealous, saddened, etc., it is never about them. That person is always our teacher; they are there to reflect how we are meant to heal and grow. If you refuse to learn from them and continue to blame anyone outside of yourself, you will only be met with more people who reflect the same lesson. I have said something along these lines several times throughout each essay (my apologies for the repetition). It is woven into my consciousness because I have made it a practice to focus on myself. Focusing on ourselves and how we carry ourselves in relationships doesn’t have to be egocentric in a “negative” way. Instead, concentrating on ourselves allows us to see where and how to grow to become more loving, gracious, compassionate, patient, and accepting. If we are open to the invitation, other people are our guides to that place. Those people are our soulmates.

In the first dream, my mom was cooking a pan full of bacon. I could see how much grease she put in the pan and got the impression that she would hurt herself. Before I could decide whether to say something, the oil got all over her and burned her. She cried out loud in a way that was painful to hear. I felt sadness, perhaps guilt, a sense of protectiveness, and love when I saw and heard my mother in pain. I knew I should have warned her to be careful, but I didn’t speak up for some reason. I cried out to her. I rushed to her, wondering if she was okay. She insisted she was fine and continued cooking.

In the second dream, I felt uncontrollable sadness that overwhelmed my entire face. I saw my mother for who she was. I saw a resounding piece of myself in her. I could feel it in my heart. The music was astounding and from another realm; it perfectly matched the scenes running in parallel. I wanted to hug her and tell her I finally understood. I felt a deep sense of understanding and perhaps forgiveness.

I felt at peace.

Reflecting on our relationship, I find similarities between my mom and me. Last year my mom and I visited my sister in Canada. It is always interesting to return to Canada because even though I haven’t lived there, it is where my mom grew up and where most of my maternal family lives. My mom, sister and I have few opportunities to spend extended periods together. My mom and I live close to one another in the States, but my sister wanted to experience living abroad for university and grad school. (I always thought it was interesting that she moved to a place with so much history for my mom.) Every time I am with them, I notice things about myself and them that I have never seen before. It is like looking into a three-way mirror. Being with my sister will highlight specific attributes from our parents versus things that are more personal to me. If we share them, they come from somewhere, right?

One day when we were returning from a place across the water that held so many childhood memories for my mom, we were all particularly exhausted. My mom and I had begun traveling early; it was oppressively hot out, and we were hungry... it was great to be with everyone, but the smallest thing could have set anyone off. My sister had lived independently for over a year and developed her routine. You know how it is when your parents visit your apartment; they begin inserting themselves to ensure you are okay. My mom was trying to help my sister with something regarding her space, and my sister was not having it. (The washing machine was broken. Could my sister have handled it on her own? Probably and she might have. My mom just wanted to make sure it was handled correctly.) They got into a huge argument that rippled throughout the rest of our time together. My sister was frustrated with my mom for the way she was trying to handle everything (better words could have been chosen). My mom was upset with my sister for her response when trying to help (better words could have been chosen). I wasn’t surprised. There was usually one disagreement every time we visited, at minimum. My mom couldn’t help but try to make things better for my sister, and my sister was seemingly unappreciative. I don’t know what it is about that moment in the sun’s heat, but I just knew that this whole time, even though I thought my mom and I were so different, we were exactly the same.

I can’t quite explain exactly how I came to this conclusion at that exact moment. I felt this incredible rush of knowing; everything seemed to connect. Before this trip, I spent over a year living with just my mom (which is a totally different dynamic than living with her and my sister). It had never been just the two of us. My mom was one of the first to show me everything is Nature. She challenged me to wonder what would happen if I put the love I know within everyone within my center focus. What love was beneath her words? It wasn’t easy at first, but I practiced it every day. I practiced it when things were calm and less calm (there were plenty of opportunities). I was committed to change because I didn’t want our relationship to suffer indefinitely. Seeing how her actions came from a place of love helped me understand her at that moment. I began to see my mother for her empathy, compassion, and patience. (This was during COVID, so I had plenty of time to reflect.) It could be that the more I accessed my empathy and sensitivity, the more I could see it within her. Without spending all that time with just her, I don’t think I would have seen her side. Mind you, I understood why my sister reacted the way she did. My mom’s words, tone, and overall delivery on the surface did not imply that she was trying to be helpful. Years ago, I reacted like my sister did when I didn’t know my mom either. When we were all there under the stifling heat of the sun, I got it. I would have been so frustrated if I was trying to do something nice for someone, and they showed me anything but gratitude. How interesting is it to ponder that we look at one another and think we are so different, and the more we get to know ourselves, we realize we are all the same?

That’s always how it works, isn’t it? The people that frustrate us the most are the ones we have the most in common. That is because they are our most powerful mirrors, our soulmates. Our soulmates are meant to challenge us and help us grow. My mom, sister and I have different personalities, of course. Still, the core parts of us are more similar than not. We all love making things easier and nicer for the people we care about; we also get frustrated when they don’t listen to us. Everything has a light and a shadow. The Shadow allowed me to find what was beautiful about my mom and myself. My mother has been a mirror of my most significant power this whole time. How we perceive the opportunities for love and growth is all around us. I see everything as a portal for love and growth. Others may see everyone as an opportunity to heal their shadows (I am also a fan of this one) and transform their darkness into something that will help humanity. Some see life as an opportunity to return to oneness, echoing unity consciousness rhetoric. It doesn’t matter which lens you choose. Learning to see, love, and appreciate my mother was a lesson in seeing, loving, and appreciating myself. I am in awe of how we are all connected.

In a dream, my mom and I were arguing in what seemed like a parking garage by my old neighbor’s house. She was yelling all of the usual obscenities at me with some unrealistic comments sprinkled in. At one point, I said, “Why would you say those things to me? Why? I am your daughter. I would think from these things that you do not love or respect me. Or do you not love and respect yourself?” I wasn’t angry, but I was firm. The dream didn’t feel emotionally overwhelming. It was the first time I ever confronted my mother in a dream. So I moved from the familiar feeling of frustration that trademarked my other dreams to something more open.

My mom may rebuke me, but it isn’t because she doesn’t love me. She says all of these things because she does care about me. She loves me so much more than I could envision. How she conveys that love may seem questionable at times, but she does protect everyone she cares about. It took me a long time to see past her apparent brutal words. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the tools or compassion to understand their history and intention. However, that doesn’t take away from how much her words hurt.

My mom and I revisited my sister in Canada about a year later. She wanted to be around family for her sixtieth birthday, and I hadn’t seen my sister in a couple of months. After the fiasco that was the previous visit, my sister asked us never to surprise her again. The washing machine incident from a year prior was only the beginning. My mom is immaculate; my sister could be tidier. Her apartment is hers, so if she wants to clean it, she will; if not, that’s her choice, too. However, my mom always has something to say regarding the cleanliness of a space. My sister wanted to know in advance if we were coming so she would have time to clean up and avoid the criticisms. We surprised her; thus, she didn’t have time to clean and could sense what would come next. My sister preemptively told my mom that if she were to go inside, she wasn’t allowed to say anything concerning the state of her apartment. She didn’t say this in the warmest tone. Additionally, since her statement was more of a reaction to what happened a year ago, it presumably came out of nowhere. My mom seemed genuinely confused as to why she was being spoken to that way after our nine-hour drive for her birthday weekend. When we were alone in the parking garage, she was upset. She didn’t know what she did to warrant such a venomous response. No one deserves to be spoken to with anything less than the utmost respect, especially if it is a loved one. I felt terrible because it was the first time I saw that my mom had no idea why my sister seemed to harbor some underlying resentment toward her. From her perspective, she was only ever trying to help, and I saw that. The miscommunication was hurting their relationship in the same way it damaged ours.

Seeing my mom and sister interact during both stints in Canada cemented my beliefs regarding how vital delivery is. Is it constructive if you want to support someone but can’t communicate effectively? My sister is also incredibly empathetic, kind, and sensitive. She has taught me how much delivery matters. My mom has a habit of saying something that most people would consider rude and saying, “Well, it’s just the truth. You’re the one that can’t handle hearing it.” When I suggest to my mom that she is a bit softer with her words when she speaks to my sister, she claims that she already is and she shouldn’t have to tiptoe around her. To some extent, I agree. I don’t think we should sugarcoat everything, but conscious communication is essential. There is a fine line between watching and curating what you say. I am more susceptible to the latter. 

In truth, my mom, sister, and I are all sensitive and don’t admit it very often when someone does something that hurts us. That is why sometimes the way my mom says things is even more perplexing to me. I could see how hurt she was in the parking garage by my sister’s words, and all I could think was, “Where do you think she got this from?”. We are sensitive in different ways, but anyone can tap into times when they were hurt to empathize with someone else. This goes for my sister as well. I am not a confrontational person. (That’s one of the reasons this dream was so surprising to me.) My sister, however, has less of an issue confronting my mother. Her confrontation is more reactionary and tends to provoke the situation rather than resolve it. (Her delivery could use some work, too.) My gut reaction is to keep my responses to myself and bottle them up for later. I wouldn’t say it is healthier; I am always working on it. I wanted to shake them both so that they realized they were essentially the same person, so the arguing wasn’t necessary. During our first visit to Canada, my sister told me how upset she was (regarding the argument over the washing machine) when we went to brunch later that morning. My mom expressed how hurt she was when we were in Jamaica, days after everything happened. I don’t know that either one of them communicated that clearly to one another.

This dream reflected a lot about me concerning external and internal confrontation. Examining the interpersonal dynamics between family members is incredibly helpful. You also don’t want to be that person in their twenties running around blaming their parents for everything. Our parents, like us, do their best with the tools they are given. I don’t know that we are meant to try and change our parents to conform to the ideal parent-child relationship we create in our heads. My mom is the way she is. My sister’s preemptive reaction was her erroneous attempt to communicate a boundary. Boundaries are important. I wouldn’t advise anyone to let people talk to them in a less-than-kind manner. Still, you can’t control people. However, it is always within your power to heal your relationship to your relationship with that person. What hurt the most for years was feeling so unseen by my mother. She didn’t see how much her criticism hurt, and I wanted her to know. Every time I tried to make her understand, I felt more heartbreak. Grasping her perspective helped me release that need; how could she ever see my pain if she didn’t see her actions through my lens? Changing my relationship to our relationship via empathy and compassion helped me to let it go.

Furthermore, the criticism may have started with my mother, but I internalized it and took it to another level. How I speak to myself is horrific; I would never talk to anyone this way. Blaming my mom for the origins of my inner critic doesn’t create any change. Taking responsibility, however, puts the power back in my hands and allows me to create something new. Confronting myself and initiating an internal dialogue when I say these things to myself could be more beneficial than just staying silent.

I am sorry for ever blaming you for any part of our relationship. I now know that everything you have ever done is because you love me unconditionally.

Everything is Nature, and Nature is synchronous.

I began that practice with my mother and let it expand to everyone else. I don’t believe anything is an accident. Every single person in your life plays a critical role in your development, as do you in theirs. It’s easier to see how the people closest to us are guiding us versus someone we pass on the street, but I am sure they have something to offer too. There are no coincidences.

My mom taught me to “get curious” about everything. What is this person doing here? Why are they here at this time? What are we doing together in this setting? What about the people around them? What do they all have to add to the conversation? What am I doing in their life? Getting curious allows me to connect all the dots and see the world in its auspicious beauty.

Our third-dimensional practices hold a certain consciousness. Namely, they are teaching us something on both physical and nonphysical levels. One of my favorite practices has been analyzing my dreams. Tracking my dreams has taught me about the moon cycle, storytelling, nonlinear stories, waves of interpretation, timing, patterns, and how to view life through an objective/symbolic/archetypal lens. When looking at dreams, I pay attention to the third-dimensional story (no matter how discombobulated that may seem) and the emotional data underneath. Ultimately, dreams have taught me how to be my healer via perceiving synchronicity and beauty in everything. Dream analysis has required me to step back and view the seemingly disjointed aspects of my life from a wider lens. How I interact with my dreams influences how I interpret circumstances, people, etc., in my waking life. The aura allows me to look at the multidimensional relationship story underneath the third-dimensional story. Synchronicity and beauty are my antidotes to feeling the need to control everything around me. Viewing people and experiences objectively as lessons, gifts, and portals for love and beauty has radically shifted my perspective. With time and patience, I can quickly see how everything is connected. Everything happens the way it is meant to.

Since this perspective is derived from my dream analysis practice, I call it “dream consciousness.” Dream consciousness goes hand in hand with unity consciousness. Unity consciousness is the understanding that when we find unity and harmony within ourselves, i.e., accept every dimension of our quantum being, we can find peace within the collective. Namely, when we accept every part of ourselves, we can accept all parts of everyone within our universal family. When we reject aspects of ourselves, we reject aspects of the collective. We can genuinely accept all other beings when we meet all layers of The Self with Unconditional Love. Perception of synchronicity and beauty is the pathway to unity and acceptance on all levels.

Here’s a different type of example: I work at a private equity firm (3). Private equity itself is traditionally a white and male-dominated industry. This wasn’t a problem for me as I grew up in a small, white, affluent town. What stood out to me about this particular firm after I started working there was that most people belong to a specific church (4). (When I say majority, it’s around eighty percent if I had to guesstimate (let me emphasize that that is not an accurate statistic).) No, it’s not an exceedingly widespread religion like Protestantism or Catholicism (which may be more believable). Every owner and employee knows that this religion dominates the company. I don’t have much in common with everyone since I am not white, a man, and don’t belong to that church. Yet, everyone there is so nice and supportive, making it an incredible workplace— I have no complaints. 

I am used to being a minority race-wise. I am used to being a minority gender-wise. I have never been a minority in a religious capacity. (I’m not religious anyway.) It’s new, and it’s not. Sure, there are times when I wish I could easily bond with my peers in the way they all bond with one another. I don’t, and I’m not meant to. When I think about my deepest wound, “belonging,” I don’t think I am meant to fit in anywhere. There is nothing wrong with feeling like you don’t belong somewhere. What was “wrong” was my attitude towards it; I was always fighting against it. My workplace, including my co-workers and the web of interpersonal dynamics, continues to reveal its medicine, and I still have much to learn from it. Seriously, what are the odds of me winding up at such a specific company? What are the odds of someone who has been a minority in such an obvious way working in a place where I would be the minority again in such an unexpected way? And it continues to run deeper, and I name the dimensions of my story. Getting curious has taken me out of my head and made me more observant and open to what opportunities for learning and healing are present in all situations. So many core parts of my life, including relationships, places, situations, etc., reflect that core wound. Anything and everything can reflect our core wounds, clues as to what we are here to offer. Soulmates are everywhere; soulmates reflect synchronicity.

There is synchronicity everywhere. I don’t think synchronicity is when things just so happen to work out in the way that you wish them to. Synchronicity is another way of finding love and beauty everywhere. Everything from where I grew up, how I grew up, my friends, their friends, my partners, their parents, their partners, my work, my place of work, my parents, their work, the butterfly I saw last week, my family, and back to my mother is synchronous. Synchronicity is what makes life meaningful and beautiful.

I love you endlessly.

---

(1) Disclaimer: Anything I write about anyone in my essays results from my subjective, human, and imperfect perspective. None of my essays aim to portray anyone negatively; that would be unfair, as this is my side of the story. I do not claim 100% accuracy of anything but my perspective, mainly because I have not had contact with some mentioned people in several years. We all grow and change.

(2) Not everyone with a womb necessarily uses she/her/hers pronouns. The Mother archetype is available to everyone of all gender identifies. If it weren’t universal, it wouldn’t be an archetype. My mother uses these pronouns, and since this story is about her, those are the pronouns I use throughout this essay.

(3) I am keeping the details vague on purpose.

(4) See the above footnote.

southern peach

John (1) was a true Southern gentleman. On rare occasions, he wore cowboy boots around campus, reminding us of his origins. Fresh off any home visit, he would bring back frozen peaches, foie gras, and duck confit. It was a bit strange, but everything was always delicious. John was in our university’s journalism school, which was a perfect fit for him. He was really into politics and a great conversationalist. He had blonde hair, brown eyes, and a great smile that would be assets when he inevitably became an on-air personality. All of the girls in our dorm loved his subtle southern accent. I’m sure that worked in his favor, too.

Like most girls on our floor (and probably anyone who knew of him in the dorm), I liked John. He was charming and alluring but in a relationship with his high school girlfriend when we first met (college tested their relationship, and it didn’t last long). I had a crush on someone else, so I didn’t focus my energy on John. The main thing John and I had in common were our home circumstances. We were both privileged enough not to worry about money growing up (which, due to our school's (relatively limited) economic diversity, wasn’t the case for everyone). We shared a cultivated taste in food (I’m not sure I ever saw John eating Dominoes at two a.m.). We also both loved hiking and being outdoors. We were sarcastic in the same way and had a similar sense of humor. Other than that, we may not have had everything in common, but he became one of my best friends for a few years.

One of my friends suspected John and I liked each other and wondered if we were secretly dating. I was flattered at the thought that someone from the outside thought that John could be into me. After all, he was one of the most desirable freshmen in our dorm. I reevaluated and dissected every interaction. Maybe there had been some light flirting? Definitely not enough for me to confront him about it.

Soon after, John started dating another girl on my floor. John’s girlfriend and I didn’t exactly click. She was a cute, petite, and bubbly blonde. She had this unique, fervent, wild, childlike energy. John’s girlfriend was very eccentric. What I didn’t appreciate about her back then was that she owned how strange she was, which was strange because many kids are just trying to minimize how much they stand out in their first year of college. Not John’s girlfriend; she leaned into her eccentricities, and people either loved her or couldn’t get far away fast enough. (That’s an exaggeration, but it did annoy some people (primarily girls that may have been upset at how many boys liked her)). Even though she had her shadows, e.g., anxiety, intensity, etc., like everyone else, people thought it was endearing. To top it all off, she was so sweet, unlike me, who was incredibly dark inside. I did like that she loved cats because I also love cats. That’s about as close as we got.

I tried being friends with John’s girlfriend long before she was John’s girlfriend. During my first year, I vowed to be open to anything because I had spent the past eighteen years living in a bubble. She was just too herself, and I subconsciously found that intimidating. If anything, I was jealous that someone as weird as her (it’s a compliment, I promise) was not only comfortable being themselves but also loved. Meanwhile, I was stuck, always trying to be someone else to scrape by. It also didn’t help that not only did everyone think she was interested in my boyfriend (before he was my boyfriend), but also they thought he was interested in her. My jealousy compounded. Even though my boyfriend didn’t like her, the feeling of the possibility that someone would have chosen her over me never left. It grew more when I found out that she and John were dating because I liked John. How did she effortlessly capture the attention of everyone I wanted?

I can’t remember how long John and his girlfriend dated. It was long enough. Even while they were in a relationship, I got a nagging feeling that John could have still liked me. This feeling remained a speculation and was never confirmed. We were still close friends who didn’t seem to bother his girlfriend (of course, she was never insecure). John was very loyal. Not only was he in a committed relationship, but also my boyfriend was his other best friend; he would have never crossed that line. When she couldn’t go with his family on vacation, he took me instead. Nothing weird happened, and the break was a lot of fun. Even though I wasn’t his first choice, going on the trip made me feel special.

John would compliment me in ways that I still only felt “pretty for a black girl.” He never said those words because if he did, I hope I would have known better to run for the hills. Still, I couldn’t compete with his cute, sweet blonde girlfriend. The only thing I had going for me was that I was thin. I noticed a pattern when John described the girls he found attractive: they were all thin, smaller, and white.

I don’t know that I ever really liked John. Don’t get me wrong; I liked him because he was a good friend and, sure, he was objectively attractive. Still, I couldn’t imagine myself with him. It was always awkward in my head. So what was going on?

I wanted John to want me. It’s not even personal to him. If someone like John, someone traditional, wealthy, and white, wanted me, then it meant that I had succeeded. It would mean all those years I spent bending over backward to attain the unattainable weren’t in vain. It would mean that I was good enough. It would mean that I was beautiful. It would mean that I was desirable. I wanted to be wanted by him.

In the back of my mind, I knew that someone like John wouldn’t end up with someone like me. He told me once that his parents thought his college girlfriend was too eccentric. I imagined what it would be like if he introduced me as his girlfriend to his parents. They probably would have said I was too black. My relationship with John reflected the pain of feeling undesirable.

Wanting to be wanted by someone like John motivated most of my actions throughout college. I was always on a quest to prove that even though I was black, I could be as beautiful as someone like John’s girlfriend or become “someone like John’s” girlfriend. I did whatever I could to receive external validation; it was never enough. Maybe I would have the same freedom as John’s girlfriend to be me. I thought once I felt lovable enough, I could exhale.

Thank you for reflecting one of the more complex aspects of my core wound. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to trace it back to its origins and begin healing.

When I was younger, I would always get compliments on how tall and thin I was. Nothing else. Consciously, I realized that the standard of beauty was based on being white and thin. I couldn’t control that. Subconsciously, I knew that there was nothing I could do about being black. I couldn’t control that either. Consciously, I did everything I could to remain thin.

My efforts to remain thin resulted in a full-blown eating disorder. It wasn’t as bad in college. I had rowing practice six days a week, so washing down my Trix cereal with grape soda wasn’t a problem (thankfully, I didn’t develop diabetes). I was aware of my body but didn’t feel the need to change it since it was pretty much “perfect.” (At least that’s what other people told me.)

Eating disorders (from my unprofessional perspective) rarely had anything to do with food. It’s always something else masking itself. My eating disorder was a manifestation of my inner critic. I can’t pinpoint when my inner critic showed up; it’s not something we are born with. I suspect it began to show its face in high school. I didn’t have the strictest parents, but they did expect highly of me. My inner critic made sure that I was always in check so that my parents wouldn’t have to instead. After that, it lingered around.

I began to notice how loud the inner critic depended on how much of my life felt manageable. College was mainly fine; I knew my path: do well and graduate on time. It was much worse after graduation because everything was spiraling out of control. I went to stay with some family friends just outside of San Fransico to find a job. I discovered too late that I didn’t want to do anything related to computer science; it simply wasn’t my calling. I enjoyed my time in Northern California because it felt like home. Nevertheless, it was incredibly stressful to be under someone else’s roof while they waited for me to get myself together. When I returned home, I stayed with my dad until he was frustrated and didn’t know what to do with me. Knowing that I was disappointing him was hard, and he assumably felt helpless. I chose to stay with my dad because my mom and I didn’t get along. I felt closer and safer with my dad. When that situation came to a halt, I had no choice but to show up at my mom’s doorstep.

My dad was quieter in his disappointment, whereas my mom had no issues expressing how furious she was with me. The things she would say to me were awful. I experienced a long-term sadness that I had never felt before. (Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Now I know she was trying to help because she loved me. It didn’t feel like that at the time.) I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. With no clarity or direction, I felt paralyzed. It felt like my mom loved me less and less every time we spoke about my job search. She called me sad and pathetic, which stood out amongst her cruel words. I felt unwanted and worthless.

The only quick fix I had to feel somewhat lovable and valuable was to remain as small as possible. The only reason I had access to a scale was I was staying with my mom, who had one. (I don’t know anyone under thirty who owns a scale, but I could be wrong.) Every morning I would run in the park, follow it up with a hot bath, and, while completely dehydrated, step on the scale. The routine helped me feel like I was maintaining order within my chaotic inner world. I wasn’t merciless; if the number deviated by a pound or two, that was okay. Anything outside of that, however, was a problem that could be remedied with what I chose for lunch.

The routine only ended when I eventually found a job and moved out. Moving out meant no more scale or way of knowing what that number was. I sure wasn’t going out of my way to buy one. (Somehow, in my mind, that would have been absurd.) I naively thought this issue would follow suit once my problems were solved. It didn’t. I engaged in that ritual for over a year. That kind of constant internal criticism doesn’t just disappear. Not having a scale didn’t stop me from nitpicking. Having a job didn’t stop me from relentlessly criticizing my body. To make matters worse, my mom and I began having dinner weekly on Tuesdays after I moved out. When I came over for the first time, I located the scale.

I am so sorry for everything I put you through. I am sorry for constantly comparing, judging, and criticizing you even though you have done nothing but support, nourish, and hold space with me from the day I was born.

Patterns that start small are virtually untraceable. It took me years to notice how bad my disorder was and to begin healing it. I’m not a fan of New Year’s resolutions in that you need to make a list of thirty things to accomplish by year-end. Maybe you can, but I am not the kind of person that can focus on thirty goals over a long period. I don’t know where this tradition originated, making it inauthentic. I do like the idea of reexamining the visions we have for ourselves to make sure we are in alignment with what we want to offer in our lives. I usually begin thinking about this around my birthday. This year, I decided that the one thing I wanted to do was heal my eating disorder. That’s it. (It is a lofty goal since I have had it for so long. That doesn’t make it impossible.) Also, “heal” doesn’t mean go away. I don’t know if they completely go away or remain to ebb and flow. I wanted to understand it better, know its origin and open a conversation. Truthfully, that was the impetus for this collection of essays.

People dream about a wide variety of things. Some people have lucid, fun dreams featuring them flying through Costa Rica; others have prophetic dreams about someone they know being pregnant or the impending death of a family member. My dreams are not that cool. My dreams have always pointed to things in my subconscious that I need to pay attention to consciously. The things I need to heal and integrate within myself without fail show up in my dreams.

I had a dream about a year ago that I was in a family friend’s childhood home. My sister and friend were in my energetic periphery; I could feel them around. I went to a bedroom in the house and found a scale in the corner. It looked old and gross like it hadn’t been touched in years. I began fiddling with it, not knowing how it worked. The unit of measurement was set to kilograms, so I tried to find a way to convert it to pounds. (I am always bad with numbers in my dreams; kilograms would have looked like ancient Greek to me). I remember standing on the scale but couldn’t tell what the number said. So I got off the scale and saw my friend’s stepmother vacuuming in the hallway. I was ashamed; I didn’t want her to see me on the scale. I tried closing the door but couldn’t get it to shut. She was about to enter the room.

This dream is pretty cut and dry. I only had this specific dream once; some shared some similarities, but they were more vague bits and pieces. Dreams don’t exist in a vacuum. When I analyze my dreams, I look to other dreams I have had to see if they relate. It took about a year to realize that this dream was connected to John’s dream.

Once a year, around John’s birthday, I would dream about him. I have had many recurring dreams, but none that have only popped by for a visit every year. I was accustomed to urgent dreams occurring at least once every twenty-nine days. I don’t feel a wide range of emotions in my dreams. When something desperately needs my attention, I feel angry or sad. I never fail to notice those dreams. 

Every dream with John was happy. That caught my attention. It was an odd stray from my typical array of emotions. I wasn’t complaining. I loved those dreams.

I felt loved in those dreams.

This dream has been a subtle hint all along. What are the odds that it was with John in the one dream where I felt loved? It says nothing about us, specifically on the physical plane; we haven’t talked in years. (The most interesting dream characters are ones that I haven’t spoken to in a while. I’ve noticed that this means that it is less about them as a person and more about what they symbolize. John has transformed into a very powerful symbol of “desirability.”) I don’t know what this dream means entirely. Dreams are like slow-blooming flowers; they are multilayered and reveal their beauty one petal at a time. However, it reflects a narrative in my head that a part of me feels accepted when someone like John wants me. Desirability is a complex wound that I look forward to exploring further.

Whenever I acknowledge a dream’s message, they disappear. I will only know in several months whether I have honored the core message of this dream sequence. I appreciate the dream for showing me the more complex sides of myself. I don’t know that I would have been able to write about the nuances of this wound, let alone begin the healing process without it.

I love you.

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(1) Disclaimer: Anything I write about anyone in my essays results from my subjective, human, and imperfect perspective. None of my essays aim to portray anyone negatively; that would be unfair, as this is my side of the story. I do not claim 100% accuracy of anything but my perspective, mainly because I have not had contact with some mentioned people in several years. We all grow and change.