You will never know what you truly value in life until you’ve lost everything.
You’re so involved in it. That’s why you thought you owned them.
Disclaimer: This essay was originally published in my Substack newsletter on June 18, 2023. Click here to view the original version.
You will never know what you truly value in life, what things you truly want to keep until everything has been removed from you. Your house. Your job. Your life. Your family. Your personality. You thought you’d worked hard to get them. You’d spent years saving money to keep things afloat. You thought that was your mission, as if you were born with this responsibility.
You’re so involved in it. That’s why you thought you owned them.
But then, life, as mischievous as it has always been, will turn everything upside down. Everything your parents planned for you, every goal you’ve created in grade school, every vision you wanted for yourself in college, all gone in a blink of an eye like dust vanishing into thin air.
And when you’re at the moment, when everything was collapsing in front of you, with tears in your eyes, you’ve told yourself, “What have I done wrong?” or something like, “Why did I fail them?”
This is me. The ‘Me’ I never thought I would become.
Because she was every mother’s idea of a ‘perfect daughter.’ She grew up wearing this mask her mother wanted her to put on.
If I would tell my 21-year-old self — in nine years, she’d be married to a foreign national, childless, living more than 11K km away from home, suffering from tremendous financial losses, she would lose her home in a foreign land, she would go astray from her family’s expectations, she would shed liters of tears and later become a monster — I don’t think she’d like that.
Because she was every mother’s idea of a ‘perfect daughter.’ She grew up wearing this mask her mother wanted her to put on. She didn’t want anyone to see or know who she was, thinking there was nothing about her. Nothing interesting. Not worth the attention. Too ambitious to befriend. Too unreachable.
Yet, in the background, she’d worked so hard to belong in some sort of a family or a community and become useful in whatever ways she thought. For her studies, she’d turned nights into days, insults into daily routines, forced smiles into habits, all for the sake of everybody.
She didn’t have time to explore what she wanted or hadn’t realized how colorful life truly was because her life revolved around what others expected her to do. Achieve, and achieve more. It was as though nothing else mattered except the honors she’d receive every year. In her mind, finishing her studies was a top priority, an agreement, a deal she’d made with her parents. Nothing else. The idea of enjoying the journey, wearing a smile albeit the pain, would appall her to the utmost.
From a cheerful, ambitious woman, she would later become the monster that strained relationships, including the marriage she wanted to protect. Her life went on like that until she unknowingly pushed herself into the abyss and marked her skin with scars, thinking she deserved the punishment.
She couldn’t see the unicorns as colorful as they once were, the childhood memories she had, climbing on a hill, feeling proud to have reached the top. Those things were slowly fading away. Though she could remember how her imaginary friends looked or figure out an accurate guess of what they could have been, she felt nothing. No sparks. No fire within. Nothing.
She became a stranger to the childish world she’d built. She could picture herself, the young girl that she once was, wearing a smile and watching herself how she’d made them, but she could never figure out why she couldn’t feel anything.
Despite the apathy, the tears remained true to their faith as they filled her eyes and streamed down her face, leaving her wondering why she’d cried. Why did she cry, she’d asked herself. There was nothing sad about what she’d seen. She knew they were all hers. She recognized that it was her unicorn, and this was her inner world.
But unlike those days, it was gloomy and dark.
If she were talking to me now, she would approach me with a frown or a resting bitch face. If she’d started her day with a fight with her husband or with her parents, I’d expect a volatile conversation. And I guess it would be because of either her trashing herself or her family. She would be extremely volatile that she’d once caused a hole in the door. Literally. She was her husband’s ‘Amber Heard.’
By the way, before I forget. Screaming is one of her favorite things to do because it makes her feel like she is a winner. She couldn’t bear the feeling of being disagreeable or meeting someone with different values from her. Because if she did, she’d feel so uncomfortable, feeling her insides churn, the adrenaline kick and everything else inside her convulse. And she thought screaming would make her feel good.
Here’s another thing she’d do to me aside from that — belittling me as though she were better than me. You know, the ‘Me’ back then was a Karen, too. It was her favorite sport, and she was the champion. So, I’d expect her to lash out, telling me why I am stupid; why didn’t I choose the easy corporate decision? I could have applied to high-paying jobs because I have brains and the talent these bastards needed. I could have applied for any vacant jobs at the national government. With my skill set, it would have been easier to achieve power and status.
That’s what they told her, and she’d never have qualms saying that to me.
She would say I should have continued my life — the kind of life she’d imagined to achieve — and become the most successful person. She could have proven herself worthy than her cousins, better than her classmates and teachers who bullied her in school. Become the kind of person her family would be proud of.
She would say, I shouldn’t have done this, I shouldn’t have chosen this path where I’d be gritting my teeth, enduring the losses, for a dream. A foolish, childish dream.
“You could have achieved so much, bitch! But what did you do? You chose to become a self-published author. For what? Because you love it? Love can’t put food on the table.”
She would say something like that, thinking I would never smell her deep-seated insecurity. Yes, I could have done things differently or chosen an easier, proven path for myself, for my future. I know this road would make my parents, my sister, and everyone happy, rooting for me and for the future they saw for me.
However, these things didn’t matter to me because, in the end, when I moved to Germany, I lost everything. I lost my job, my honors, my family, and my friends. Everything is gone. Even my personality, which I thought was mine, was gone. If they had known how painful it was to remove a layer of myself, piece by piece, until I had nothing.
Until I was nothing.
Whatever life will throw at me, I can sure withstand everything with the inner strength I never thought I could have.
Years of shadow work made me realize how much I’d lost within myself. I almost took my own life because of it. And I wasn’t really able to imagine the damage until I finally saw those unicorns again, hearing the earliest forms of short stories I’d written, the characters talking to me in my head, the colorful magical world I’d built as a child, the swooshing of the trees dancing with the flowers splattered across the eyes could see, with the music of nature playing in the background.
For sure, I have disappointed everyone. Because in their mind, I’ve made the stupidest decision, and as an achiever, it isn’t something they’d love to hear. For a topnotcher, they would expect me at the top. But when they hear me speaking about my life right now, they wouldn’t be impressed because it doesn’t make any cent. My first drafts are worth nothing in a capitalist society. My books can’t pay the rent, as they say.
For sure, I could have achieved a lot more, could have done more. I’m not blind to unsee what was going on around me, nor deaf to unhear the unsaid. But rather than screaming or belittling someone just as I did in the past, I would rather keep my fucking mouth shut and listen. On both sides with a fair share amount of respect. From their side and my side.
In the end, what matters is that I can still smile even in the direst times of my life. Whatever life will throw at me, I can sure withstand everything with the inner strength I never thought I could have. If I were to compare myself to two years ago, in the same situation as I am right now, I would have jumped on the train track and not looked back. Because there was nothing to look back on anyway. These things would have been too much for me to handle.
But that’s not the case.
Because I’m smiling. And what makes me smile? For the first time in my life, I could sit down alone without having to scream at anyone to prove a point and belittle myself for the decisions I’d made. Being able to talk with me with respect and love is the greatest gift I’ve given to myself and my 21-year-old self. We may have personality differences, but it’s okay. We’ve learned to respect our differences and boundaries.
After all, it isn’t the dollar signs I think of when I do or write something. It’s not the money I see when I publish books that drives me to be a better writer. What I love about it is being able to have a meaningful conversation with myself. Through creative writing, I can share my stories with you, thinking of how purposeful did I spend the time meeting old friends, hanging out, and having coffee with them in my head.
I’d never done that for most of my life. Oftentimes, my brain would be drowning with sorrow and my eyes with tears, unable to talk to myself nor articulate what I feel and think. Now, at 30, I’m happy to be in this world as a woman with a child’s heart.
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