I brought you into this world

Those who know how to finish that phrase know – “I brought you into this world, I can take you out of it”.

It’s one of the many lines etched into the memories of kids raised by parents who grew up in difficult circumstances and parented through fear, survival, and sacrifice. A recent TikTok trend where kids have to finish these sentences genuinely brought me so much joy. The sheer confusion on their young faces as their parents asked them to complete the sentences. The weightlessness with which they botched the phrases. No history, no memory, no weight to those words.

For those of us who grew up with threats dressed up as lessons in respect and gratitude, it stirred conversations. Most of us are bound by the same complex gratitude: equal parts love, pride, hurt, and guilt. One friend in particular spoke about the burden she carries — trying to honour all that her parents did for her, without erasing the ways their love also wounded her.

And this is a deeply familiar feeling for many, these scripts passed down reflect a parenting model rooted in fear and control more than malice. But its specifically those parents that uproot and rebuild their entire lives in the hopes of providing opportunities for their kids that I want to address.

She was quick to preface that she had a very privileged childhood, her parents worked stupidly hard and still do.  Her father especially worked hard to fulfill the duty he thought defined love. But in every aspect, he was a stranger, distant and cold. And it took her years to understand that he, along with her mother, were not just her parents. But humans experience a myriad of other losses, longings, and wounds in life.

It takes taking a step back and viewing them as people, products of their society and hardships, to allow them the grace they deserve. So, for her to believe that her parents didn’t do any of it on purpose or with malicious intent is heartbreaking and liberating. Their actions were a result of people who were not given the emotional vocabulary to express their emotions properly. Taught to bury softness for the sake of survival, and forced to carry the weight of pride, shame, and fear all at once.

Add on top of that the immigrant experience. Maybe they weren’t emotionally unavailable, maybe they were just overwhelmed. Both her parents had to endure microaggressions and smile through it, because survival in this new country almost depended on it. Had to make space for themselves in a country that never planned to include them. It’s a lonely experience - carrying the burden of survival while facing invisible walls of exclusion, isolation, and the pressure to silently endure the microaggressions, so their children might one day belong.

Nor did they have the luxury of rest or reflection, considering so much of their life was written in survival. Which raised the question, is it fair for us to expect them to learn to regulate emotions, express vulnerability, and undo their past traumas when they were wound up so tight in survival mode?

They were just hardened. In a foreign alien land, with no one to validate their experiences. Immigrant parents can’t see themselves with self-compassion and grace if they were never taught how. So, the shame from their past builds and turns into irritability and fear. Felt strongest by their loved ones – hurt people hurt people.

None of this is to justify any of the parents’ behaviour or erase it from our minds. But in recognising this, she was able to approach the past with an open mind and holistic understanding. Able to connect parts of her own story to her parents. Recognising the pride and pain, hope and hardship, love and loneliness, all tangled together.

She spoke of how she’s not grateful for the ‘trauma’ she experienced, but ultimately, she is who she is and where she is as a result. All she can do now is accept that and let that be enough. They wanted what’s best for her, but didn’t fully understand the impact of their unchecked behaviour on their kids. But for her, forgiveness isn’t clinging to the hope that the past could have been different — it’s accepting it for what it was and not letting resentment weigh her down.

No longer does she view them as just parents, but rather humans experiencing life for the first time, as we all are. Not through resentment, but through reality and empathy. Understanding that her parents have a lot of healing to do in regard to their own parents. As a child of an immigrant, the last thing she wants to do is burden them further, especially with emotions of mental health, given the cultural silence and stigma that surrounds it.

Because how do you tell someone who sacrificed everything for you that their love also hurt you? Especially when migrant families often equate sacrifice with love, and provision with presence. And with immigrant families, it can be awkward and hard to bring up conversations like these, especially when the wounds haven’t healed.

Maybe now she can be the safe space they never had, the softness they didn’t know how to ask for. Create a space for them to speak and feel freely, as they often did for her.

It was interesting how the same reminder came up again; her parents moved to a place where they weren’t necessarily wanted or included. That realisation shifts your view on what ‘real’ problems are to a very dark place. She recently moved cities and is experiencing the weight of starting over somewhere unfamiliar. Her parents did all that, in a foreign land, with two children. As she navigates adulthood – bills and burnout with a body that carries exhaustion, it’s become easier to view her parents with compassion and grace.

Healing in public, especially as a South Asian, feels like a betrayal of your family. When you’re raised in a society that teaches you to heal in silence, if at all. As a result, I felt discomfort, guilt, and betrayal every time I tried to write this. Feeling as if I was disrespecting and shaming them. Before that, I used to think healing meant confronting them. But for me, it was simply acknowledging it all. Both the hurt that was carried down to me, and the hurt they experienced from their parents and the world.

Somehow, it was easier to view from an outsider lens. Safer to speak of her story – to hold the emotions at arm’s length. But they were my parents, and nor am I villainising them nor excusing them. Simply exploring the emotional bifurcation – joy and hurt from the same source. So, while they loved me and blessed me with the incredible life I now live, they did so not without mistakes and not perfectly.

And it’s because of the uncomfortable conversations I’ve had with them that I’m able to build a stronger, more honest relationship with them and myself. I can now carry all that once happened differently. More importantly, I am conscious of and can appreciate them for the quiet weight they carried for decades, without applause or pause. The sacrifices they made, immense but often invisible, hidden behind tired smiles and quiet endurance.

It was a recent thought I had that led me to broach the following topic with Mama again, which really allowed me to love and appreciate them as simply just people. If given the same privileges, opportunities, and liberty that was handed to me, what would they have done? What dreams did they have to forgo in the name of survival?