People often reminded me of how fortunate I was to have a family with both parents present. My mother had grown up in a broken home, and the scars from her parents’ divorce lingered throughout her life. Many of my friends came from single-parent or blended families and envied how “normal” my family appeared to be.
“You’re so lucky! I would have given anything for my parents to stay together.”
“I can’t stand seeing my dad only on weekends. You’re so lucky yours is always around.”
“I wish my parents loved each other like your mom and dad do. You’re so fortunate.”
If I was so lucky, why did I feel so profoundly unhappy?
People only saw what we chose to show them. My mother, in particular, saw only what she wanted to see. She created a façade of a family with two parents, vowing never to repeat her own parents’ mistakes. Yet, history tragically repeated itself.
My parents had a deeply toxic relationship. They both came from abusive upbringings, which they often used as an excuse for their harmful behaviors. They believed that because they had endured hardships, it was acceptable to make our lives difficult as well.
On the surface, we seemed like a loving family. My parents were outgoing and sociable, and others mistook this for genuine happiness.
My father was a natural entertainer, always cracking jokes and bringing joy to others. My friends found him hilarious. Many of them didn’t have father figures or their dads were absent, and they looked to mine as a model of what a dad should be.
My mother was charming and emotionally expressive, showering attention on others and dropping everything to help those in need. She even encouraged my friends to call her “Mom.”
However, this kindness did not extend to her own children. My father barely acknowledged me, finding me too quiet and sensitive. He favored my younger brother, who was more adventurous and outgoing. He had wanted a son, and I think he never fully accepted me. I often questioned if he was truly my father, given the stark difference in how he treated my brother and me. But since we looked alike, I had to face the painful truth: my father simply didn’t like me.
My mother treated me more like a friend or a therapist than a daughter. Her nurturing behavior was a ruse; she never showed genuine warmth towards me. Instead, I was often the one who had to manage her emotions, deal with her issues, and face punishment if I didn’t handle things perfectly. She could lash out at me for no discernible reason, and I lived in fear of her outbursts. Cruel comments about my personality and appearance were frequent. She often lamented how motherhood had trapped her, insisting she could have achieved greatness had she not had children. More than once, she threatened to leave when I got home from school.
I never sought protection from my father; I knew I wasn’t valued enough.
Even though my basic needs were met—food, clothing, and shelter—I often felt emotionally neglected. This realization filled me with guilt, as I had been told repeatedly how lucky I was to have such a wonderful family. Everyone admired my parents, leading me to believe the problem lay within me. I wasn’t good enough, which is why they treated people outside the family with more consideration. I tried harder, but it was never sufficient.
As an adult, I now recognize that my feelings of neglect were valid. My parents were emotionally unavailable, carefully crafting the illusion of a perfect family. Their neglect even allowed all three of us children to experience abuse from extended family members. While they may not have realized the full extent of the abuse, they were aware enough to act. However, their “woe is me” mentality clouded their judgment. Their self-pity left no room for empathy toward us, their children.
I’m certain my parents had vowed to break the cycle. My father didn’t want to be as unloving as his father, who clearly favored his sister. My mother sought to avoid a shattered marriage like her parents had. Yet, her resentment toward my father often led her to use me as a relationship counselor, mirroring the role her mother had imposed on her.
Instead of actively working to avoid the same mistakes, they focused all their energy on projecting an image of the perfect family to the outside world.
When it came time for me to start my own family, I had a lot of soul-searching to do. I learned that family isn’t solely about blood ties or shared interests. It’s about understanding and learning from history, not denying it out of shame. It’s about being honest about the behaviors we inherit, rather than convincing ourselves we can’t repeat the mistakes of our past. It’s about taking responsibility and refusing to use our upbringing as an excuse for any harm we inflict on our children. Most importantly, it’s about making a conscious effort to be better every day.
Now, as a mother to my own daughter, I’m acutely aware of the patterns that run through my family’s history. I plan to have more children and am mindful of the tendency to favor certain children over others. I also recognize the urge to prioritize appearances over addressing deeper issues. Unfortunately, I’ve developed anxieties about how others perceive me, a fear of judgment, and a longing for acceptance. I’m determined that this will never come at the expense of my family.
There are many toxic patterns entrenched in my family history, and I’m unsure if I can ever completely unlearn them. They were the only family I ever knew, and although I managed to distance myself from them, I can’t entirely escape the template they provided for future relationships. All I can do is commit to ongoing self-improvement and take responsibility for any harmful behaviors I may have learned. The cycle ends with me.
What distinguishes me from my family is my acceptance that the family I’ve created is not perfect, and that’s perfectly okay. I know I won’t get everything right, and I’m at peace with that. More importantly, I no longer feel the need to curate an image of a loving wife and mother for others to admire. I love my husband and daughter for who they are. Unlike my parents, I have nothing to hide; I take pride in the family I’ve nurtured.
This is what a perfect family means to me: an imperfect little unit that may not always look appealing to the outside world. I may not always appear to be the best mom, and I know I’ll face judgment. But in the end, what truly matters is that we love one another and strive to be our best selves, fostering the healthiest relationships we can. Family is about effort, making mistakes, and trying again.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the misconceptions surrounding her family dynamics, revealing the emotional neglect and toxic relationships that defined her upbringing. She acknowledges the importance of breaking the cycle of dysfunction and emphasizes the need for honesty, accountability, and self-improvement as she builds her own family.
Keyphrase: emotional neglect in family
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