I spent most of my life trying to prove I wasn't lazy.

Not to the world. To my family.

There was an unspoken value system in my house growing up: hard work, good grades, responsibility. Those were the things that got you seen, so I chased them. I tried to get straight A's. I took care of my brothers when my parents were falling apart. I managed money carefully and never spent frivolously. I did everything I could think of to be someone they couldn't dismiss.

It never quite worked. And it took me a long time to understand why.

I remember sitting with my grandfather watching an episode of Long Island Medium with Teresa Caputo. I loved that show. I had been deeply spiritual for years at that point, reading the Conversations with God series, studying everything I could find, thinking constantly about the nature of existence. It was a huge part of who I was.

So, I asked him what he thought about it, just curious what he thought about mediums and spirituality since he was more religious.

He looked at me and said, "Well, you must not think about it much since you’re asking me."

I just sat there.

He had no idea. This person, who was supposed to know me, who I had driven from Seattle to San Diego to help care for, who had opinions about my finances, character, and capabilities, didn’t actually know me at all. Not even close. It made my heart sink. My entire life, I have really loved and looked up to him, and he didn’t even know me.

That was the moment I started to really understand something:

The people judging you often don't know you nearly as well as you think they do.

My grandparents knew a version of me assembled from distance and other people's descriptions. We moved away when I was young. They had hearing problems, so we rarely talked on the phone. The glimpses they got were from holiday visits and whatever my parents told them, which probably wasn't flattering. So, when they co-signed a student loan for me and then paid it off a few months later because they didn't think I'd be able to handle it, I was confused. I had always been responsible with money, but they didn't know that because they didn't really know me. Honestly, I would have rather owed the bank money and paid the higher interest rate than deal with the family drama.

My mom was similar in ways that hurt more because she was right there.

I loved shopping with my mom after Christmas. We would spend the day together and would find somewhere to eat. I just really loved doing that and would even request that day off from work so I could do it with her. I remember one of those times, we were waiting in front of a store for it to open. I was excited, so I started doing the bit from that old Mervyn's commercial, hopping up and down, going "open, open, open." Just being goofy, happy, and in the moment.

She shushed me.

It sounds small. But it wasn't small. That goofy, childlike, nerdy, excitable version of me is the real me. The me that got excited about history and spirituality. The me that memorized Spaceballs and made my brothers laugh when everything at home was falling apart. That was who I was.

And I always felt like she was embarrassed by it.

It wasn't just that one moment. There was a whole side of me she never quite understood. I loved Evanescence, Anne Rice, artwork with a gothic edge, and music that found beauty inside of sadness. Not because I wanted to be sad, but because something in me recognized that pain and beauty could coexist. Getting through something difficult shows strength and determination and is one of the most beautiful things in the world.

She never really got that. I think she's starting to, a little. She saw a Halloween wreath I posted recently, black and red roses, very me, and commented, "Yes, it is." Small thing. But I noticed it.

Growing up, though, that part of me just went unseen. Like a lot of parts of me.

She was the party girl, the cool one, the social one. I was the bookworm, the quiet one, the weird one. I don't think she disliked me. But I'm not sure she ever fully liked who I was. And growing up with that feeling, that the person who is supposed to know you best doesn't quite see you, does something to a kid.

It makes you perform.

So, I performed. I worked harder and got better grades. I tried to prove I was responsible, capable, and not a burden. I spent months in San Diego caring for my grandparents when my grandmother could no longer walk, doing everything I could, and it still wasn't enough. When I finally left to start my second  HR job, I needed a money order for an apartment deposit, just a timing issue; they needed it right away. I asked my mom to loan me the money. Her response was, "I wasn't going to do this."

She gave me the check anyway. But that comment.

I immediately went to an ATM, borrowed against my credit card, got the money order myself, and handed her the check back. Because I would rather struggle than feel like a burden. I would rather do it completely alone than ask for help and be made to feel like I shouldn't have.

That's what happens when asking for help has always come with a cost. You stop asking.

Here's what I know now that I wish I had known sooner: the people who made you feel like you had to earn your place in their lives probably didn't know you well enough to judge you in the first place. Their version of you was assembled from incomplete information, unresolved issues, and whatever story made the most sense to them. It wasn't really about you.

You can love someone and not really know them.

I know my mom loves me. I'm just not sure she's ever fully understood me. And I spent a long time trying to become someone she would.

I'm done with that.

I accept who I am. I’m much happier when I’m being my authentic self, and I’m not going to change that for anyone else’s approval ever again.

Those who really love you will accept you for who you are. Those who don’t will fall away. Let them and keep strong boundaries with those who remain.

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