Dear Mom and Dad, Your Sacrifices Silence My Struggles
By CLAIRE XIAO ‘27
Dear Mom and Dad,
What I don’t say: Your sacrifice burdens me.
This isn’t the confession of an ungrateful child nor an apology. It’s the uncomfortable truth of many first-generation families. Shaped by the immigrant pursuit of a better life, love manifests an invisible debt.
The narrative is familiar: parents who leave behind everything — their language, family, and culture. You gave up so much, and the math is simple: I owe you.
What I do say: I didn’t ask for any of this.
But the truth is, neither did you. And yet, here we are — bound by gratitude and grief.
On Sundays, I sit and watch you in the kitchen. With your apron tied behind your back and your rough, calloused hands cutting apples. You set the plate down in front of me. I know the peels are sitting in the sink. And I know when I’m gone, you’ll sweep away the red slivers and eat the remaining fruit around the core.
My success is not personal. It’s proof your sacrifice was not wasted. It’s not what you planned, but I chose my path. I can’t tell you I’m tired now, for I know “tired” was a luxury to you.
You say you are proud of me. I can’t say I agree. Pride implies ownership, and I don’t know if I own anything at all. I resent the weight of it. Resent that I carry the weight of history I had no part in writing. Resent that pride has become a relief and that I have justified everything you gave up.
It’s not just our family, and I am not the only first-generation child. We are many. You did not cross oceans for your children to resent you for it. I can explain. At first, it started as guilt. And as the initial guilt morphs into anger, I begin to question the cause. Why should your choices dictate my existence? If this price is a cost I can never truly pay, why should I slave away in a futile attempt to escape my indebtedness?
` I don’t say: Your sacrifice was never meant to hurt me, my anger demonized you. Instead, I say: you should have lived your own life instead of trying to live through me. Intellectually, I understand you. But understanding does not erase resentment.
You were never meant to be on the receiving end of this anger. But as we hurdle through the fabric of time and history at incredible speed, we inherently lose sight of the beginning. The intent and the impact. The very momentum of time drags me towards a future that is mine, and not mine at all. I wonder if there’s enough space for both of us in this narrative.
So, no. I’m not asking you to extricate me either. But what I do know: your sacrifice is not a debt to be paid. In our story, I hope there’s enough space for us: for love and loss, gratitude and anger. Without them, who are we? This is not an apology, it’s a reconciliation. The reality is, we’re both here, trying to understand the two worlds we occupy: my generation and yours. There is quiet acceptance of carrying the past and future in equal measure. It’s not an easy knot to untie, but it offers unresolved space, not for children of debt, or parents of sacrifice, but for individuals who must write their future.
Let us sit at the table. Let me peel and cut the apple, split the fruit, and toss away the core together.
