A Free-Spirited Family

Next month, my mother, who once casually said, “Oh, by the way, I’m heading to the U.S. for a year starting next week, so stay home and take care of the cat,” will be returning home for a short visit.

In the end, that “one year” in the U.S turned into two, and she’ll likely stay for a third year.

My mother has always been free-spirited, uninhibited, and the kind of person who naturally draws people in.

My father and older brother are just as eccentric.

There are stories so absurd they could be straight out of a comic book, and there are things I’ve learned that I probably shouldn’t have—things I wish I never knew but also, deep down, wanted someone to listen to.

Cracks have always existed somewhere in our family.

There were times when those cracks shattered completely, to the point where it seemed impossible to repair anything.

But instead of trying to fix or discard the broken pieces, we would say, “I don’t really know what to do with this, so let’s just put it in a bag and shove it in the back of the closet for now,” and go on living as if nothing had happened.

Then, after some time had passed, we’d remember those pieces, take them out, and realize, Hey, this actually has some character to it. Maybe we can still use it? And just like that, our family would start a new season, in a new form.

Since I was a child, my family never tried to conform to society’s expectations of what a family should be, nor did they force those expectations onto me.

My parents run a company together but have lived separately for years.

I don’t have many memories of us sitting together for family meals.

When I was in school, they rarely attended events like open house days, sports festivals, or music recitals.

When I was in kindergarten, I would cry and scream whenever my mother tried to leave the house. So, she started disappearing before I woke up—catching early morning flights and vanishing to who knows where.

I still remember the sinking feeling of waking up and realizing she was gone.

Every night, I worried—What if she disappears tomorrow? What if she never comes back?

I even doubted whether she would show up to pick me up from kindergarten.

Actually, she often forgot to pick me up—she’s absentminded like that.

One day, I told her, “Can’t you just be a normal mom?”

She looked sad and said,

“What’s a ‘normal’ mom? Everyone has their own way of being. Hima, you should live the way you want, in a way that makes you happy. I have my own life too. And my time is shorter, so let me do the things I love. Let’s all live the way we want.”

Hearing that, I couldn’t help but feel that taking away someone’s freedom, or expecting someone else to shape my life for me, was something to be ashamed of.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t loved. It was simply that everyone prioritized their own private lives.

Since I was little, my mother taught me that different people hold different values, and that this is perfectly natural. I’m grateful for that.

That said…

When I hear other people my age talk about their children, or when friends tell me how close their families are, I sometimes feel a tightness in my chest.

A little envy. A little ache.

I can go anywhere in the world alone and live just fine. I enjoy eating alone.

But maybe that’s just because I got used to it.

Maybe I’m afraid to say I feel lonely.

Maybe being alone feels easier because the fear of losing someone is worse.

A while ago, a friend of mine, who had struggled in past relationships, found a new partner. I wondered if they would get married. When I congratulated her, she said,

“I found love because I was finally ready to be loved.”

For some reason, that hit me hard.

Still, I don’t want to blame my family for anything.

I don’t believe in the idea of a “normal” family—every family has its own unspoken rules, things only they understand. Most people just don’t talk about it.

Looking back, maybe my life has been a bit unconventional.

But I’ve also encountered so many incredible people along the way.

One thing I’ve come to realize is that everyone carries their own wounds, their own histories.

And yet, those who find a way to rise above, to transform pain into love and growth—those people are truly captivating. There’s something special about them.

I’ve spent so much of my life trying to avoid pain.

But when I look at those people, I can’t help but think—maybe not all pain is useless.

And if that’s the case, I’d rather embrace life and enjoy it while I can.

In the end, laughter is always better.

Letting yourself fall apart is dangerously easy—it happens in an instant when you let your guard down. That’s what’s so terrifying.

I, too, have had times when I hurt my family and myself.

It’s easy to blame someone or something else. Sometimes, that’s even necessary—it can be a form of survival.

But in the end, I’ve realized that the only person who can make me happy is me.

And so, I’ve finally come to believe—if each of us can live our lives in a way that makes us happy, that’s enough.

Mom, stay in America as long as you like.

Live however you want.

Before you’re my mother, you’re your own person.

And I am too.

I’ll probably keep saying ridiculous things out of nowhere, though.

If we ever run into trouble, we’ll just figure out the best solution at the time.

That’s how I’ve been thinking lately.

Dear God, I promise I’ll try not to be too greedy—just let my days be gentle.

Wait, didn’t I just contradict myself?

Whispering my bare thoughts here, where maybe no one will ever read them - so I'm ending this abruptly.

If you read this, thanks. ❤️

Essay @hmwr3112