In this post, I am sharing a deeply personal letter that I originally wrote in Korean and have since translated for this blog. This letter, addressed to my mother, captures a significant moment in my journey. Stay tuned for Part 2, where I will delve into my reflections and updates IN DEPTH since writing this letter. I’ll provide a link to Part 2 as soon as it’s published!
14th September 2023
Dear Mum,
It’s been a whole year since I was in Korea for Jong’s (brother) wedding. Reflecting on that pivotal night before the wedding, when I deliberately chose to sit you and Dad down to revisit my high school days, I’ve been wrestling with why I picked that exact moment to open up. It was far from a blame game. I was driven by a deep-seated need to unload burdens that have been weighing on me, craving some level of understanding or closure from you both.
The visit was emotionally taxing, reaching a peak of exhaustion by the third day. Navigating the dynamics between you and Dad, I found myself slipping into the familiar role of mediator, the ‘good daughter’ always striving to balance the scales of our family’s emotional needs. Yet, this time, it struck me how much of myself gets lost in these efforts, leaving me yearning for a space where I can simply exist as me, without the burden of roles and expectations I’ve been conditioned to play.
Our family trip to Cairns a few years back springs to mind, particularly the clash at the hotel restaurant with Dad. Standing up for you was instinctual, driven by a lifetime of witnessing how he treated you. Your dismissal of my actions, attributing them to a lack of proper upbringing due to my early departure, cut deeper than you might have realised. It felt like betrayal, echoing the sentiments I shared during my last visit.
Your habit of skirting around conflicts, quickly changing the subject or pretending not to hear, taught me to suppress my frustrations and seek approval by hiding my true feelings. Advising us to always endure and apologise to Dad, regardless of the circumstances, was a lesson in love, but also in self-denial
You confided in me about your frustrations with Dad, pouring out your anger in his absence. I absorbed it all, not fully comprehending the impact. Caught between gratitude for your trust and guilt for not being more protective, I found myself at a crossroads.
At the wedding, when I stood up and firmly told Dad, “Don’t talk to her that way,” it wasn’t me challenging our cultural norms or questioning how we were brought up. It was me, standing in my truth, pushing back against years of suppressed feelings. Dad’s immediate reaction was sharp and stinging, “Don’t ever come back home!” His words hit me like a tidal wave, awakening those deep-seated childhood fears of being abandoned. Ironically, I felt empty and numb but also had a sense of clarity that the childhood fear of not speaking up was the ‘fear of abandonment’ and my instinct did what was required to keep me safe – not being abandoned by saving my truth.
Since the wedding, Dad has chosen to block me, cutting off our lines of communication. Your calls to me, Mum, come through heavy with sorrow and trepidation. It’s clear in your voice, laced with shame and fear. The moment Dad’s presence looms, our conversations end abruptly, leaving words unspoken and emotions hanging in the air.
Your recent advice, suggesting I should apologise, struck a chord in me. It highlighted how our family dynamics, steeped in fear and guilt, have always overshadowed my individual identity beyond just being your daughter. I harbour no resentment towards you or Dad. I see the battles you’ve both fought, the sacrifices made, and the love that underpins it all. I understand the pain and fear behind your actions and hold onto my love for you both, unchanged by these tribulations.
However, acknowledging this doesn’t erase the hurt that lingers, a hurt that demands to be voiced for my own healing journey. I long for both your happiness and Dad’s. Yet, for now, I find myself needing to take a step back from our regular calls. Seeing the guilt and shame in your voice, sensing your constant fear of Dad discovering our talks, it’s heart-wrenching. It forces me to confront a difficult question: “Will there ever be a moment when your fear of conflict is overshadowed by the sight of your hurting daughter?”
This letter isn’t an indictment but an explanation, a way to convey my feelings and the complex tapestry of our family dynamics. I cherish both the joy and pain that have shaped me, recognising that unintentional hurt does not diminish its impact.
For now, I just need some time and space to process it all.
Please take care, and I trust that Jong’s new chapter will bring happiness to our family. My love for you remains unchanged. With love always,
Your daughter