Trigger warning: child abuse
Growing up, I was often told how fortunate I was to have a family with two parents. My mom had come from a broken home, and it deeply affected her throughout her life. Many of my friends hailed from single-parent or blended families and envied the “normalcy” they perceived in my household.
“You’re so lucky. I would’ve given anything for my parents to stay together.”
“I hate having to see my dad on weekends. You’re lucky yours is there all the time.”
“I wish my parents loved each other like yours do. You’re so lucky.”
If I was so lucky, why did I feel so profoundly unhappy?
People only witnessed what we let them see. My mother, in particular, only acknowledged what she wanted to believe. She had created a two-parent family and vowed never to repeat her own parents’ mistakes. Yet, history repeated itself, and it was heartbreaking.
My parents had a deeply toxic relationship. Both had endured abusive childhoods, often using this as an excuse for their harmful behaviors. They believed that since they had faced struggles, it was acceptable to inflict pain on others, including their children.
On the outside, we appeared to be a loving family. My parents were outgoing and sociable, leading others to mistakenly equate their friendliness with happiness.
My dad was a natural entertainer, always cracking jokes and making people laugh. My friends adored him, many of whom lacked a dad or had fathers who were disengaged. They looked to him as a model of fatherhood.
My mom was emotionally expressive and charming. She would shower attention and compliments on others, dropping everything to help someone in need. She was warm to my friends, encouraging them to call her “Mom.”
However, this kindness didn’t extend to me and my siblings. My dad showed little interest in my life, finding me too quiet and sensitive. He favored my younger brother, who was more adventurous. I often wondered if I was his biological child due to the stark difference in his treatment of me.
My mother treated me more like a confidante than a daughter. She relied on me to manage her emotions and carry the weight of her interpersonal issues. If I failed to do so adequately, I faced her wrath. She would lash out for no reason, and I lived in fear of her temper. She often made cruel remarks about my personality and looks, expressing resentment over her role as a mother and frequently threatening to leave when I returned from school.
I never sought protection from my father; I felt invisible to him.
Even though my basic needs were met—food, clothing, shelter—I felt an overwhelming sense of neglect. This realization filled me with guilt because I had been told how lucky I was to have such a wonderful family. Everyone praised my parents, so I concluded that the problem lay with me. I tried harder to earn their love, but it was never enough.
As I grew older, I understood that the issue wasn’t with me. I had been emotionally neglected by my parents, who were adept at maintaining the façade of a perfect family. They were so neglectful that they allowed all three of their children to be abused by relatives. Though they may not have grasped the full extent of the abuse, they were aware enough to intervene. Yet, their outlook of “I’ve had it hard” clouded their judgment, leaving their children to suffer unnecessarily.
I’m sure my parents intended to break the cycle. My father didn’t want to be unloving like his own father, who clearly favored his sister. My mother sought to avoid a fractured marriage like her parents had. But resentment toward my father turned her into a relationship counselor to me, mirroring her mother’s behavior with her.
Instead of actively working to change their patterns, they poured energy into creating the image of an ideal family.
When I decided to start a family of my own, I had much to contemplate. I realized that family isn’t strictly about DNA or shared interests; it’s about learning from the past, not hiding from it. It involves being honest about inherited behaviors and not using one’s upbringing as a justification for harming children. It’s about making conscious choices every day to do better.
Now, as a mother myself, I am acutely aware of the patterns that have plagued generations of mothers and daughters in my family. I plan to have more children and recognize the tendency to favor certain children. I am also mindful of the inclination to prioritize appearances over addressing deeper issues. I have learned to manage my anxiety about others’ opinions and the need for acceptance, ensuring it doesn’t come at the expense of my family.
My family history is fraught with toxic patterns, and I may never fully unlearn them. They were my only family, and while I have distanced myself, their influence lingers. All I can do is work diligently on myself and take responsibility for my behaviors. The cycle ends with me.
What distinguishes me from my family is my acceptance of our imperfections. I understand I won’t always get everything right, and I’m okay with that. I no longer feel the need to present an idealized version of my family to the world. Though it’s painful when faced with judgment, I embrace my husband and daughter for who they are. Unlike my parents, I have nothing to conceal, and I am genuinely proud of the family I’ve built.
This is what constitutes a perfect family to me: an imperfect unit that may not always appear flawless to others. I accept that I may not always come off as the best mother, and I will face scrutiny. But what truly matters is the love we share and our commitment to striving for better relationships with one another. Family is about effort, learning from mistakes, and persevering.
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