originally written on january 30th 2026.
i think i thrive as part of a unit.
that feels important to admit.
for a long time i told myself i needed distance to survive, that independence was the only way i could become myself. and it was true, once. when i moved out at eighteen, i felt like a new person. i needed that separation. i needed to learn who i was without being watched, without translating myself constantly.
but now, being back home, something in my body has softened. i’m eating regular meals. i’m leaving the house. i’m taking my medication every day, something i’ve never been able to do consistently before. the structure doesn’t feel like a cage. it feels like scaffolding. i’m not panicking before class. my life feels stitched together instead of scattered.
why does care feel different when it’s consistent?
why does accountability feel kinder when it’s shared?
my mom has been my biggest supporter in all of this. reconnecting with her over the last month has surprised me in ways i didn’t expect. i think i’ve always envied people who have easy relationships with the women in their families. i grew up with two brothers, no sisters, and a mother who felt so different from me. she’s type A. i’m type B. i’m disabled. i’m queer. i move slowly and feel deeply in a world that rewards speed and certainty. for a long time, our differences felt like friction.
last night she told me something i didn’t know. the first night i moved out, my roommate had brought cockroaches. my mom cried all night because she was so worried. she wanted my independence to be good for me, and instead it felt like everything fell apart immediately. hearing that cracked something open in me. even then, her love was enormous. even when it came out as fear, or control, or not understanding, it was still love trying to keep me safe.
how often do i misread fear as opposition?
how often do i mistake worry for a lack of trust?
my mom and i, we’ve been having long conversations and they are real ones. about our lives, our values, how we communicate, what we need from the people we love. and i’m realizing something quietly profound: we value the same things. care. honesty. effort. showing up. i just hadn’t extended those expectations to family. i expected something harder, more conditional. i expected to have to brace myself.
what if family could be approached like chosen family?
what if i didn’t have to armor up to belong?
lately, i’ve been relating to my mom more like a dear friend. not instead of her being my mother, but alongside it. there’s more listening now. more patience. more room to be human together. it feels like we’re finally meeting each other without old scripts running the conversation.
maybe thriving doesn’t always look like standing alone.
maybe sometimes it looks like being held, fed, reminded to take your meds, and loved in ways that don’t need to be earned.
i’m grateful. and i’m noticing that gratitude lives not in grand gestures, but in quiet mornings, shared meals, and the relief of not having to do everything by myself.
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