For 33 Years, I Blamed My Mother for My People-Pleasing

But I’m finally learning to let go

Photo by Oscar Keys on Unsplash

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Poised, gentle, elegant. Words many use to describe my mother.

“If your house caught on fire,” my best friend once said, “I can imagine your mother gracefully waving a finger at it and offering something like, Oh, there appears to be a bit of heat over there.”

I laughed, but deep inside, I ached. If only one of these adjectives could catch the hem of my personality. If only.

But no, my soul was the spitting image of my father — proud, stubborn, an alpha.

The only problem was my appearance betrayed me; I was my mother’s shadow: harmless, kind, with no hard edges. People were visually disturbed when my looks failed to match my voice — low and gravelly, not in a sexy way, more like I-smoked-three-joints-before-tea.

Then, I surprise them again by revealing the person behind it: nothing gentle, half-heartedly humorous, and thoroughly skeptical.

But that, too, is a mirage.

The truth is, I’m not courageous. I’m but a pathetic people-pleaser, so that person up there? She has yet to be revealed to anyone outside of herself. I trek through life with a sign that reads: chirpy, merry-go-round happy, and always eager to help — a walking contradiction of my father and the dark heroine that lives inside me.

For years, I’ve pinned my people-pleasing feat on my mother. Because aren’t we all but victims of our tragedies? Someone else is always to blame. Parents scar their children for life, so why not?

Then, I had my own child. It was a slap across the face. I wasn’t a much better mother, if at all.

I used to resent my mother’s lack of vulnerability and character. She was too composed, too calm. So, I looked up to my father for his rebellious ways. I loved the way he smoked defiantly, refused to go to family reunions, and went out of the way to get his way because, deep down, I believed he was taking it out on my mother for the both of us. She had suppressed us with her gentle ways when all I needed as a teenager was an outlet, a chance to be myself in front of the two people who claimed to love me most.

But I realized I’ve been overprotecting the protagonist — myself. I refused to see the truth, the other side of the blade.

To comfortably hide in my self-pity, I crafted the perfect narrative: I was a people pleaser because my mom wanted me to be one. She wanted me to be spontaneous and easy-going, kind and generous, giving and selfless. Because that’s who she was.

Only now do I spot the holes in my own story.

Yes, that was who my mother was. But I also willingly chose to please, not because I was anything like her, but because it worked, and I was rewarded grandly — showered, often unfairly, with praise and love. I had no reason to stop pleasing, until it broke me.

Until I had nothing left to give.

Now, with my new identity as a mother, I could read part of her narrative. My mother wasn’t unfeeling or ignorant; she was just a woman from her era, never given the right to explore or express her emotions. As she said, “All I ever thought about was how to get by, one day at a time.”

I look back and am grateful that my mother didn’t bend for my father and me, that she had stood her ground and stayed herself despite it all. And I look forward with mindfulness, for I now know to show more vulnerability so my son can grasp what it’s like to own his human emotions, to see that rawness is welcome in this family.

Healing isn’t about becoming the opposite of our parents but becoming more like ourselves for the sake of our children.

Thank you for reading. If this changed you in any way, please leave a comment and tell me your story. 🤍🤍

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