In my culture—South Korea—the idea of love is often synonymous with sacrifice. Historically, women were expected to provide children, raise them, and tend to the household, while men were the breadwinners. My family followed this traditional model, though my mum also worked full-time—a rare occurrence in her time—while still taking on the full weight of the “woman’s role” at home.
South Korea, a country that struggled with widespread poverty only a few decades ago, placed immense faith in education as a means of escape and progress. For many families, this belief in education meant parents sacrificed everything so their children could have opportunities they themselves couldn’t. This commitment to education became deeply embedded in the collective consciousness of South Korean society.
For my mum, her love for us was expressed through tireless sacrifices. She worked, raised children, and endured all forms of abuse from my father, holding the family together at the cost of her own needs. This kind of love, while deeply selfless, carried unspoken expectations. Phrases like, “How can you do this to me? I’ve done everything for you,” or, “I sacrificed all this so you could have a better life,” were often heard in households and reflected in Korean dramas of my era.
This dynamic creates a cycle. Parents, driven by love and the wounds of their unmet needs, push themselves aside for their children. And children, in turn, put their own needs and feelings aside to avoid disappointing their parents. Both sides believe they’re acting selflessly, yet the result is often grief, guilt, and resentment—toward each other, but ultimately toward themselves.
Generational Patterns in My Own Life
Looking back, I see how I carried this dynamic into my relationships. I’ve written before about my tendency to put my thoughts, feelings, and needs aside for my loved ones. I convinced myself it was out of love, and often it was. But what I didn’t fully see until recently was how this behaviour left me feeling unseen, unfulfilled, and disconnected from myself.
In my marriage with Shama, I communicated my frustrations, my needs, and my feelings transparently—a growth I’m proud of. Yet even with that progress, I now recognise that at the end of it all, I still prioritised his wounds and needs over my own.
What I thought I was grieving—the loss of connection with Shama—is actually grief for the ways I abandoned myself in the process. And that’s why I had felt so much resistance to forgiving him for the last few months, despite his efforts ever since. The forgiveness I’m struggling with isn’t really for him—it’s for me.
A Moment of Reckoning
A few months ago, I said something to Shama that such a decision I made was not just about him—it was about me finally choosing myself.
“I feel like I have no option but to leave our marriage if I’m going to live my life. You keep choosing not to grow, and instead, I have to compensate for your fears. I want to explore, I want to live, I want to be myself. You say you love me for who I am, yet when it interferes with your fear and insecurity, it comes at my expense. I can’t do this anymore.”
It wasn’t about blaming him or justifying my decision. It was about naming the truth: I had been sacrificing parts of myself to sustain a dynamic that wasn’t aligned with what I needed anymore.
The Dynamics We Created
My tendency to overcompensate meant I was always the one initiating, the one adjusting, the one bridging the gap. I took on the role of the emotional leader in our relationship, believing that if I just tried harder, I could bring us closer. But in doing so, I didn’t leave room for him to step up and meet me halfway.
And another truth is, by doing all the “work”—growing into a more understanding, loving, and accepting partner—I unintentionally created a dynamic that fed into his comfort. My efforts made it easier for Shama to stay in his comfort zone, not feeling the need to make changes or confront his own patterns—at least not until his recent breakthrough a few months ago.
This realisation doesn’t diminish the love and effort we both poured into our relationship, but it sheds light on how my actions, though well-intentioned, contributed to the stagnation we experienced.
Breaking the Cycle
This grief isn’t just about my marriage; it’s about breaking a generational cycle. My mum, the most selfless and loving person I know, poured all her hopes and dreams into me. But in doing so, she set aside her own needs—a sacrifice that left unspoken scars of resentment, bitterness, and insecurity.
Out of love and respect, I stepped into the role of her emotional anchor, carrying her pain and frustrations because I loved her. And while I cherish the connection we shared, I now see how that dynamic shaped my relationships. I became someone who prioritised the emotions of my loved ones, believing it was my responsibility to hold everything together.
But this year, I made a promise to myself: 2025 is the year I pursue my own needs first. Not out of selfishness, but out of a desire to break the cycle of self-abandonment and resentment.
The Flip Side of Guilt
And yet, guilt lingers. I see it clearly now. When speaking of my needs and emotions, when my initial communication wasn’t acknowledged or went unheard, I’d find myself reminded of guilt being triggered. Over time, I’d build up a self-defense mechanism around my needs. The next time I tried to communicate, I would approach it in ways that unintentionally made others feel guilty—an attempt to shield myself from feeling dismissed again.
It wasn’t deliberate, but it stemmed from my own fear—fear of being dismissed, fear of being vulnerable, fear of the guilt backfiring on me and forcing me to repress myself again.
Now, I’ve caught myself in this place—a place far too familiar. Growing up, this was how I was often put into the same emotional spot by my parents. Their sacrifices and the weight of their unspoken expectations created a dynamic where I felt responsible for their feelings and happiness. And unconsciously, I began carrying that dynamic into my relationships, repeating the cycle without realising it.
Moving Forward
This isn’t about erasing the love and effort Shama and I share. It’s about honouring what we’ve built while recognising that our growth sometimes requires us to take a step back—not from each other, but from the patterns that no longer serve us. Shama is also working on himself—learning to give me space, aligning with his truth, and shifting from fear-driven decisions to finding his own independence.
For both of us, 2025 is about intentionally prioritising our individuality. It’s about embracing who we are as individuals, not just as partners, and creating space for growth within and beyond our relationship. Letting go of these old dynamics isn’t about losing each other. It’s about releasing what’s held us back so we can continue to grow—together, but as fuller versions of ourselves.