There is a kind of grief that comes from having parents who are alive, present, and still somehow never really became a safe place for you.
Not because you did not love them.
Not because you did not try.
But because somewhere along the way, they taught you that being a child did not automatically mean being protected.
And that changes something in you.
When the people who were supposed to make you feel safe become the source of fear, disappointment, neglect, or pain, you stop understanding “parents” the way other people seem to. You stop believing that home is where you can fall apart. You stop assuming someone will catch you.
You learn to catch yourself.
You become independent because you have to. You learn not to expect too much because expectations hurt. You tell yourself that you are strong, and most of the time you are. But sometimes that strength is just survival wearing a nicer outfit.
The hardest part is that the parent who hurt you may never acknowledge it.
No apology.
No real accountability.
No moment where they sit across from you and say, “I know what I did to you. I know how deeply it affected you. I am sorry.”
So what are you supposed to do with a wound that the person who caused it refuses to recognize?
For a long time, I thought healing required forgiveness. Maybe even reconciliation. I thought being a good person meant making peace, being understanding, honoring your parents, letting things go.
But I am starting to understand that healing cannot depend on someone else becoming the person you needed them to be.
Sometimes closure is accepting that the apology may never come.
And that hurts.
Because part of you still wants your parent to finally see you. To understand what they took from you. To understand why you became so guarded, why asking for help feels impossible, why dependence feels dangerous.
But you cannot force someone into accountability.
You can only decide what you do with the truth.
Because I was raised with culture. With religion. With morals. With expectations.
Honor your parents.
Take care of your family.
Be patient.
Be giving.
Be the good daughter.
But what happens when “being a good daughter” begins to mean abandoning yourself?
What happens when honoring your parent means silently carrying responsibilities they refuse to carry?
What happens when compassion turns into enabling?
And what happens when everyone expects you to keep giving simply because you are the daughter who can?
I do not want to be a good daughter anymore.
At least not by the definition I was given.
I do not want goodness to mean silence.
I do not want goodness to mean pretending the past did not happen.
I do not want goodness to mean financing someone else’s avoidance while I carry the physical, emotional, and financial consequences.
I do not want goodness to require resentment.
Maybe being a good daughter is not the goal.
Maybe being a healthy person is.
And maybe that means boundaries that make other people uncomfortable.
It may mean saying, “I love you, but I cannot do everything for you.”
It may mean expecting an able adult to contribute to the household they live in.
It may mean refusing to solve every problem.
It may mean letting them experience the consequences of their own choices instead of rescuing them because guilt tells you to.
It may even mean admitting something painful:
I can love my parent without trusting them.
I can care about them without sacrificing myself for them.
I can respect my culture without allowing cultural expectations to destroy my peace.
I can have faith without believing that God requires me to remain trapped in resentment and obligation.
I can forgive someday, if forgiveness comes, without pretending there was no harm.
And I can heal even if they never say they are sorry.
I think that is the part I am still learning.
I spent so much of my life becoming someone who did not need anyone.
Now I am learning that strength is not just surviving everything alone.
Sometimes strength is saying, this is where my responsibility ends.
Maybe I will never have the kind of relationship with my parents that I imagined.
Maybe I will always grieve the version of them I needed.
But I am allowed to build something different with my own life.
A home where love does not have to be earned through sacrifice.
A relationship with my own child where she knows she can depend on me.
A life where care is mutual.
A life where I am not only valued for what I provide.
And maybe one day I will stop asking myself how to be a good daughter to someone who hurt me.
Maybe the better question is:
How do I finally become good to myself?
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