Dear, Dad.
I hate how disrespectful you are to people. I hate how much guilt you put on everyone in our family. I hate how you make me feel unwanted. I hate how every time I call you out on these things you shove off the fault onto my shoulders. But I don’t hate that you hate me. I hate how you emotionally destroyed our family.
I think it’s funny how anytime you would start an argument with me and I bring up all the points you have no legitimate argument for, you resort to screaming, swearing, and threatening.
Dad, you need to realize that not everyone owes you something. You have done nothing to earn any our our respect and have been nothing but brutally, verbally abusive. I wish to have nothing to do with you once I get older.
I hate how disrespectful you are to people. I hate how much guilt you put on everyone in our family. I hate how you make me feel unwanted. I hate how every time I call you out on these things you shove off the fault onto my shoulders. But I don’t hate that you hate me. I hate how you emotionally destroyed our family.
I think it’s funny how anytime you would start an argument with me and I bring up all the points you have no legitimate argument for, you resort to screaming, swearing, and threatening.
Dad, you need to realize that not everyone owes you something. You have done nothing to earn any our our respect and have been nothing but brutally, verbally abusive. I wish to have nothing to do with you once I get older.
Though, It felt like winning, I can say. But it’s like being chosen to sit at the grown out table but the arms are too short to reach the fork of speaking. It’s like sitting with a clean plate 'cause you’re still not allowed to eat anything.
But later, when they talked about memories — scraped knees, sleepovers, innocent mistakes — I realized I had none of that to offer. My childhood was quiet, neat, and incomplete. It was like reading a book with missing pages and pretending I still knew the whole story, that I can share every chapter, but I can't even call it "memorable".
They saw me as composed, but I was just rehearsed. I’d learned the lines, studied the cues, and timed my silence. Not because I wanted to perform — but because growing up precocious teaches you that the audience is always watching, even when you don’t want them to.
I don’t resent the early growth. It made me capable, observant, and sharp. But it also made me a stranger to ease. I missed the slow burn of becoming, it's like jumping from childhood to adulthood quickly, without taking steps to reach every phase. It's like skipping episodes of series, that they only want to reach the happy ending, but it's not even a happiness at all, it's just an exhaustion.
Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like to grow up at the right pace — to be unsure without needing answers, to laugh without scanning the room. But that version of me stayed behind, somewhere in the chapters I never got to read.
I grown in age but still meeting parts of myself I never got to know. Slowly, quietly, learning that growing up isn’t a destination but a rhythm. And I’m finally trying to find the beat I never danced to, and promised that one day, I will move to please the rhythm and feel it.
They saw me as composed, but I was just rehearsed. I’d learned the lines, studied the cues, and timed my silence. Not because I wanted to perform — but because growing up precocious teaches you that the audience is always watching, even when you don’t want them to.
I don’t resent the early growth. It made me capable, observant, and sharp. But it also made me a stranger to ease. I missed the slow burn of becoming, it's like jumping from childhood to adulthood quickly, without taking steps to reach every phase. It's like skipping episodes of series, that they only want to reach the happy ending, but it's not even a happiness at all, it's just an exhaustion.
Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like to grow up at the right pace — to be unsure without needing answers, to laugh without scanning the room. But that version of me stayed behind, somewhere in the chapters I never got to read.
I grown in age but still meeting parts of myself I never got to know. Slowly, quietly, learning that growing up isn’t a destination but a rhythm. And I’m finally trying to find the beat I never danced to, and promised that one day, I will move to please the rhythm and feel it.
Now that I think about it, it’s kind of funny. I knew everything when I was younger. I knew which colour I liked, what I wanted to be, what kind of life would make me happy. I wanted to live like that. I wanted to grow into someone remarkable. It’s wild how, at 10, I could see my whole life stretched ahead of me like a field I could run across and at 20, I’m afraid I’ve already fallen deep into the mud.
I don’t know how I ended up questioning myself in the night, staring at the ceilings. Why is it always the middle child?
I often feel I need to adjust — quiet, not demanding and not too heavy to carry on this family. Somehow I ended up becoming the peacekeeper, even if I’m tired. also the independent one, even if I need help. Lastly, the quiet one, even if I had a lot to say about what’s on my mind or what i’ve been wanting to say out loud.
I often seek validation and belonging outside my family, friends etc. I’m too much about caring about people who I love because I want them to feel they’re useful even if I’m not the useful one. But sometimes It was hard for me to open up about my feelings because I felt like no one was listening.
Become a member
I grew up observant around with the people who surrounded me. I can see the pressure on the eldest, caring and loving on the youngest. But the middle child, they don’t have a label. And the ending is that middle child have depth and empathy and have their own world, and middle child don’t know when or how to open up their feelings as if someone will listening to them.
Why is it always the middle child?
I am trying my best to end or break this cycle. But it seems like I couldn’t, I feel like i’m stuck here forever in the dark, always questiong why is it always the middle child.
I was never seen or heard for years because they never intended to make me feel seen or heard for once. I am the middle child, the strong one. But it doesn’t mean I can handle all by myself.
I break down in silence. No one can hear about me because I distance and Isolate myself when life gets hard.
I often feel I need to adjust — quiet, not demanding and not too heavy to carry on this family. Somehow I ended up becoming the peacekeeper, even if I’m tired. also the independent one, even if I need help. Lastly, the quiet one, even if I had a lot to say about what’s on my mind or what i’ve been wanting to say out loud.
I often seek validation and belonging outside my family, friends etc. I’m too much about caring about people who I love because I want them to feel they’re useful even if I’m not the useful one. But sometimes It was hard for me to open up about my feelings because I felt like no one was listening.
Become a member
I grew up observant around with the people who surrounded me. I can see the pressure on the eldest, caring and loving on the youngest. But the middle child, they don’t have a label. And the ending is that middle child have depth and empathy and have their own world, and middle child don’t know when or how to open up their feelings as if someone will listening to them.
Why is it always the middle child?
I am trying my best to end or break this cycle. But it seems like I couldn’t, I feel like i’m stuck here forever in the dark, always questiong why is it always the middle child.
I was never seen or heard for years because they never intended to make me feel seen or heard for once. I am the middle child, the strong one. But it doesn’t mean I can handle all by myself.
I break down in silence. No one can hear about me because I distance and Isolate myself when life gets hard.
What others call a broken home, I call a blessing in disguise. It broke me, yes, but it also rebuilt me.
I still think about my father sometimes. Not with anger, but with acceptance. He showed me what I never want to be. My mother showed me what I aspire to be. And together, they gave me the life I have now — a life I built from the pieces they left behind.
So, don’t look at me and see a broken child from a broken home. For now, what I need is support. Tell me I did a good job. Tell me I’m strong for surviving what could have destroyed me. Tell me you see how far I’ve come despite everything.
Because this broken home people talk about — it didn’t ruin me.
It built me.
And for that, I am anything but broken.
It built me.
And for that, I am anything but broken.
I don’t want his name.
There. I said it. I don’t want to carry the name of a man who walked out and never looked back. Who left me, no “abandoned” me to figure out life without him. No love. No care. No protection. Nothing.
First names, okay. That’s mine. But the surname? Why should I wear the name of a deadbeat father like a badge? Why does my identity have to be tied to someone who never cared about my existence? Left me with nothing but misery?
He failed to protect me. Failed to teach me. Failed to love me. Failed to take me as his own. Failed to even want to be a part of my life. Yet here I am, forced to carry his name everywhere, on my ID cards, on every paper that says “this is who I am.”
If he doesn’t want me, why should I have his name? As they say, there’s a history behind names, a legacy. A connection to family, to roots. But then the roots you’re given are dry, broken and absent. Pain passed down silently through generations.
There. I said it. I don’t want to carry the name of a man who walked out and never looked back. Who left me, no “abandoned” me to figure out life without him. No love. No care. No protection. Nothing.
First names, okay. That’s mine. But the surname? Why should I wear the name of a deadbeat father like a badge? Why does my identity have to be tied to someone who never cared about my existence? Left me with nothing but misery?
He failed to protect me. Failed to teach me. Failed to love me. Failed to take me as his own. Failed to even want to be a part of my life. Yet here I am, forced to carry his name everywhere, on my ID cards, on every paper that says “this is who I am.”
If he doesn’t want me, why should I have his name? As they say, there’s a history behind names, a legacy. A connection to family, to roots. But then the roots you’re given are dry, broken and absent. Pain passed down silently through generations.
I love kids. I love playing with them and taking care of them. I always love the idea of having my own kids and showering them with love and affection. I want to make sure my future kids will be loved and feel loved.
I want to break the cycle of “distant-unaffectionate parents” that my Asian family has been through for generations. I want my kids to feel free to hug me, kiss me, say “I love you, Mommy”, as well as come to me and cry through their first heartbreak. I want to be their comfort person, their home.
But, that’s not enough.
Having kids is complex.
I want to break the cycle of “distant-unaffectionate parents” that my Asian family has been through for generations. I want my kids to feel free to hug me, kiss me, say “I love you, Mommy”, as well as come to me and cry through their first heartbreak. I want to be their comfort person, their home.
But, that’s not enough.
Having kids is complex.