The Price of Growing Up
At its core, growth is something chipping away at the heart, grinding us thinner before light strains through.
Family time cracks open the quietest parts of us. It’s never enough, yet always too much—to understand that something cannot be understood, and the heaviest is always unspoken.
I see my father during this Chinese New Year—first time we’ve shared the holiday since 2014, that ancient occasion of reunion. He drives me to a sanctuary for birdwatching one morning. At first, the birds sit motionless, mirroring our own silences—flocks of color perching in patches. White, gray, and gold. The wetland, a temporary home along the long southward homecoming.
My entire life, I’ve questioned why he never wanted to be my father. Why we have not spent time together or gotten to know each other? He has a new family but no kids. Right now, he’s happy.
As some birds flap their wings and lift into the sky, it strikes me—some things cannot be forced. We cannot become what we do not wish to be. That includes being a parent.
No matter how we grow up, there is a price to pay. My mother grips the steering wheel, her voice frayed. She has said something triggering. But instead of letting it escalate into a fight like every other, we have a conversation.
It feels as if my daughter is a stranger to me. No matter what I do, her voice shivers, it’s never enough for you.
How strange, the math of family—everyone subtracts themselves, then blames the emptiness. The collective illusion is, even when we are failing horribly, we think we’ve done our best.
That same night, during a card game, I ask my grandma what was the hardest decision she had to make in life. My mother cuts in, We almost had a little brother. My grandma falls silent, unwilling to say more. It’d make me cry.
Many years ago, when my mother and my aunt were little, my grandma was pregnant with a son. The family was so poor that they could barely afford to raise the girls, so they aborted the baby.
Just be grateful, my grandma tells me, we already have so much. Optimism—her signature defiance.
Are you at peace with the prices you’ve chosen? My friend asks.
Completely. Or else, how could I have searched the world for my people, my home? Behind the things I am most proud of are the prices I had to pay.
When our lives feel uniquely complicated, we forget our elders were once novices in loss. Survival is a fight comprising a series of choices and consequences. The odds of “turning out well” often seem slimmer than the alternative. When people become “bad,” they’ve lost the fight. But good people win, and they make life seem not like a fight at all. They make winning and goodness look like a birthright.
Still, growth can feel more like erosion than gain. From the outside: new experiences, memories, understanding more, feeling a little closer to figuring it out. But at its core, growth is something chipping away at the heart, grinding us thinner before light strains through. Maybe growth is a path inward, and to reach the heart of life, we chisel away piecemeal, bleeding to see what this life is about, what it has in store. The path can feel dark, lonely, and heart-breaking—but maybe knowing something takes breaking it.
Growing up is to hold the chisel and make our way unflinchingly to truth, which isn’t a revelation but a slow thaw. The fog lifts: This is why the dawn breaks.
No family survives intact—we are mosaics glued with what remains, but the cracks are where the gold goes. It’s natural to wish for perfect families and an easier life. To think, can’t I inherit all the right things so I don’t have to find excuses for my flaws? So I could be perfect for someone else. Love is a wound that hurts, reminding us of its existence, though we may wonder why it has to be this way. Yet, we have a choice: to hold on to those who stay and love us, because many won’t.
If you stay—after all that you’ve survived—let me love you.
You are so different, my mother sighs.
What she means is, You’re free.
Love,
Erica
Note: This was a very emotional piece to write after a week of emotional family time. To resolve something, I’m trying to feel what I feel and turn it into love, bit by bit.
A beautiful song I put on repeat while writing this:
Erica…this post really touched me. “How strange, the math of family—everyone subtracts themselves, then blames the emptiness.” And “Growing up is to hold the chisel and make our way unflinchingly to truth, which isn’t a revelation but a slow thaw. The fog lifts: This is why the dawn breaks.” Gorgeous strings of words that sting with truth. We all inherit the impossible calculus of family. But what a beautiful example you’ve set here. Thank you so much for being vulnerable and sharing these reflections - they are precious gifts I don’t take for granted ❤️
This was beautiful, growth is a hard and transformative experience but so rewarding by what we take from it’s lessons. Always grateful for you!