Dear Mom, I Wish You the Freedom Not to Fold Your Underwear

Escaping the quiet suffocation of doing things the “right” way

A few days ago, my mom came over to play with the kids. The couch was buried under four loads of clean laundry. Classic chaos with two small children.

She sat down and started folding it, mostly because the mess irritated her, not because she was trying to help me. She began folding the underwear.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said, stopping her. “I just throw it all into one drawer anyway,” I added casually.

I watched her struggle with her own disapproval. After a moment, she managed to say, half-joking, half-serious:

“Did I teach you nothing? You can’t live like that.”

God, the arrogance was radiating off her. I saw how she tried to mask her superiority with a light tone. But she couldn’t fool me, my inner compass was always too sensitive. I caught the disappointment in her voice, the judgment in her eyes.

I didn’t say it out loud, but in my mind, I answered her.

No, Mom.

You did teach me a lot. Your words only confirmed what I already knew: your lessons were painful, but they worked.

You taught me what I don’t want in life.

To be a slave to appearances. To choose the illusion of order over connection with the ones I love.

Order was your way of clinging to control. It was a rigid mask for your inability to accept mistakes.

Yours or anyone else’s.

To face your own imperfections without crumbling. Through order, you tried to prove you were good enough. That you were doing things the “right” way. It seems so trivial, but it showed me just how trapped you are inside yourself.

I watched you folding that underwear, knowing full well I’d toss it into the drawer the moment you left. You couldn’t not fold it, even though you knew it meant nothing to me.

I could see how much my nonconformity disturbed you, how much more it meant to you than just a drawer full of unfolded underwear.

And it made me wonder:

what did you really see in that small, simple act?

Do you feel like you failed?

Like you were a bad mother?

Like you didn’t prepare us for life?

Were we, your children, just your way of grading your own existence?

You always act so unbothered when we talk about pain, when we talk about something real. Like it doesn’t apply to you. Like you don’t want to look small in front of us, don’t want to lower yourself.

You don’t see that admitting your weaknesses would make you bigger in our eyes than ever before.

Dear Mom, I see the way you look down on me, for not meeting your expectations, for not earning you that imaginary A+ that would finally let you exhale and maybe love yourself a little.

It was always about you. Not about us.

I tried so fucking hard for you to see me.

I tried so hard for you to understand me,

to cheer for me,

to support me,

to guide me,

to have a relationship with me.

But you never really saw me.

It’s like your gaze was always clouded by your own pain, your own battles you were too lost in to fight.

I tried so hard, but it never worked.

You were so lost, and we just got lost with you.

But I’m finding myself, Mom.

I’m coming home.

A home you never created. A home beyond dependency on others. A home that’s always present inside me, steady and unchanging, like a never-ending tide crashing waves against the rocks.

I’m home, Mom. I wish you could be proud.

I imagine a world where you come to me smiling, arms wide open, ready to protect me, ready to hide me in your hug, ready to lift me up.

A world where you are whole, and able to give, not only desperately take.

I imagine a world where you are the home.

It’s not real.

But it’s enough for me.

Dear Mom, I wish you the freedom not to fold your underwear.

I really do.