My mom had me when she was 22 and her parents helped her raise me. I worried that I was not living up to all the expectations they had of me.
Courtesy of the author
When I was 22, I graduated from college. I moved into my first studio apartment. I started my first big-girl job at a literary arts center. When my mom was 22, she had just finished her associate degree. She'd moved to Houston to start her bachelor's when she was met with a fork in the road ahead of her.
When I turned 23, I moved to New York. I started working at a fiction magazine. I explored the city. When my mom turned 23, she celebrated her birthday with a 4-month-old baby. She moved back home with her parents. She put school on hold to raise me.
My mom was a single mother, but I had three parents: her and my grandparents. We lived in a three-bedroom house. The bathroom was cramped, the kitchen cozy, and the TV was always on in the background, like elevator music.
Parenting dynamics were always a gentle dance to navigate, but they all took great care of me. They took turns shuffling me from school to karate or dance class, later marching band practice, and debate meetings. They always showed up for school functions. They made sure I knew that I could achieve great things.
"Querer es poder," my grandpa used to say. If you want something, you have the power to achieve it. But in the house with three parents and a tiny bathroom, with the TV murmur constantly in the background, there were four people's wants to be considered.
Mainly, I thought about what my mom wanted. When she shared stories about her brief time in Houston or made quiet comments about wishing she'd never returned to Laredo, I thought about what she had given up to have me.
When she asked about my grades urged me to stay involved, or encouraged me to prioritize building my résumé for college or scholarship applications rather than getting a job like some of my friends, I thought about how my success was her success. When she said I was smart enough to be a doctor, or lawyer, or engineer, I thought about everything they had all given up to get me where I was.
My grandpa grew up doing migrant work with his family, then worked in the oil rigs. My mom and grandma both worked in education as a receptionist and teacher, respectively. Even as a child, I wanted to — needed to do something great, not just for me but for them.
In the house with three bedrooms, three adults, and one child, each of their dreams were riding on me. I knew what the stakes were for my mom. I knew I was her only chance. So, while I pursued grocery aisles with my grandma and visited libraries with my mom, I thought about clubs to join, how to bump my grade from a 96 to 100, or summer programs to attend. If I couldn't make something great happen, who would?
I don't mean to throw myself a pity party. Poor me, I got to live out the dream my family set me out to achieve. I know how silly it sounds. Still, these questions followed me like shadows. Would I let them down if I couldn't meet their expectations? Would I be enough even if I didn't do what they wanted? Who would be their success if I couldn't?
With so much care, attention, and expectation put on just one girl, at 11, 16, or even 22, the weight of the world begins to feel heavy on her shoulders, even if she's not really carrying it alone.
