Last Sunday was my mom’s birthday. I called her and asked how she was and how life was at home. She told me: “Everything is the same.” I wondered how everything could be, considering I was on the other side of the country. Perhaps she meant it as support—comfort, that even if everything seemed to be changing, at least my life in LA wouldn’t change. But, those words wound around my heart; hurt and fear became a coiling thing I could not ignore.
Ever since I began planning for college, I wanted to get out. I wanted to leave behind complicated familial relationships, grow out of them like hand-me-downs, and live my own life. The plan was ironclad, and I saw no room for fault. Then, I came here: Boston. Three thousand miles from my family, the distance only amplified what was already missing.
Three weeks before the big move, I met my therapist. I told her I was scared. Was I moving because I knew where I was meant to be, or was I running away? She stared at me and asked: “When does the feeling of escapism come up for you?”
Me: “When I am feeling upset, out of control, or triggered.”
T: “What makes you feel upset, out of control, or triggered?”
Me: “When I am dissatisfied with my relationships or feel like my needs are not met.”
T: “So the feeling of escapism means what?”
Me: “That there is a need for change.”
While I physically left my past behind, escaping did not wipe the slate clean, make my relationships better, or change them in any way. However, this physical distance has given me one thing: a choice. Do I let these relationships stay the same and feel the hurt of our distance, or do I hold onto hope and try to fix what has felt so irrevocably wrong?
From my new apartment window, I often see people lugging their baggage to the nearby hotels, and I think about my mom and dad. I think about the three of us just a month before, trudging down the street just like them. I can see us several days later saying our goodbyes outside the very building I reside in. My parents hugged me and told me they loved me. I replied the same. They gave me advice about college and life. I tried to listen, but my unhideable annoyance shut it down. I think of all the support they attempted to give me, even if, to my stubborn brain, it had been nothing more than: “I already know this.” I think about all these things, and the regret hits like a tidal wave.
Perhaps this is what it means to want to hold on. To feel regret over the things that didn’t change. And to remember the positive moments and smile—playing dumpling roulette, eating sandwiches from North End at a small park surrounded by squirrels, and walking through the Commons in the comfort of all the greenery.
So, today, I’ll call my parents. I’ll tell them about my life in Boston—about my supportive friends, the guy I like, and the date he has planned for us, the clubs I’ve joined, and the adventures I am going on. Most importantly, I’ll call and tell them how I feel: I miss them and know things have been complicated and strained, but I want us to be close.
There is only so much I can do to fix our relationship now, especially so far from home. But, I can inspire change with the people I love by communicating my feelings instead of hiding it all away. Maybe my effort won’t change anything tremendous, but I can at least say I tried.
Molly Peay is pursuing her BA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing from Emerson College in Boston. She is a transfer student who graduated from a JC with an English Associate’s Degree and a General Studies Associate with an emphasis in Culture and Communication. She is passionate about leadership, advocacy, writing, and sharing new voices through art.
