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“You have no idea who I am!” The door slammed with a force that echoed through the hallway, and I found myself leaning against it, feeling defeated. This wasn’t the first time my conversations with my 14-year-old daughter about her messy room escalated into shouting matches. After the COVID-19 pandemic hit New York City, we moved to our home upstate, and our previously close relationship began to fracture. Our interactions became awkward and tense, often leading to explosive confrontations. She seemed irritated by everything I said. At one particularly distressing moment, she isolated herself in her room for 12 hours straight. I resorted to using a screwdriver to peek in on her while she slept, worried about the emotional storm brewing within our home.
Despite escaping the chaos of the city, we were not free from the turmoil that had built up between us. For the first time, I felt helpless.
Deep inside, we all carry the impressions of who we were as children. My own narrative was one of inadequacy — a single disapproving glance from my father could send me spiraling into shame. I became adept at seeking his approval, but in doing so, I lost sight of my own needs. It wasn’t until much later that I recognized the significance of being authentically known — both to myself and to others.
In contrast, my role as a mother to my first daughter was seamless. I was committed to prioritizing her needs from the beginning, and our bond flourished as a result. We were that obnoxious mother-daughter pair, laughing together in the grocery store and sharing private jokes. I could calm her fears, and we understood each other’s humor. I even learned TikTok dances and organized sleepovers. For years, she asked me to sing her to sleep. Our annual trips to Burma fostered a close friendship between her and a former political prisoner, who taught her art while I facilitated trauma workshops. Once, he surprised me by saying, “You know she might not always want to come here?” It dawned on me that she could one day choose her own path, even forgoing the cherished trips we shared.
The explosive outburst came after I suggested she sit at a desk for her online classes instead of huddled in the shadows of her bed. “You don’t understand me, and you never did!” she screamed, fully aware of how much those words would sting.
After a prolonged period of seclusion, she finally stepped outside, and we passed a graceful swan gliding across the lake. I casually remarked on its beauty, only to be met with her fury. “Swans? Seriously? You think I want to look at a swan? You’re so clueless!” she retorted, storming ahead.
Back at home, I confronted the silence between us. “Now what? Where do we go from here?” I asked, already knowing she had no answer. Dressed in an oversized Harry Styles hoodie, her heavily lined eyes shot me a look of disdain before she slammed her bedroom door shut. This was beyond typical teenage angst; it felt like a seismic shift.
The next day, as I scrolled through Facebook, I stumbled across my neighborhood chapter of the Buy Nothing group, a nationwide initiative focused on sharing items rather than accumulating more. Pre-pandemic requests typically included items like pirate costumes or board games. However, as the pandemic progressed, the posts evolved, showcasing the community’s interconnectedness: someone offered a free pumpkin pie, another sought legal advice about divorce, and a member showcased a knitted blanket made from “buy nothing” wool. One particularly touching post came from a woman who sought rugs to dampen noise from her neighbors, only to receive multiple rugs and noise-canceling headphones. Later, she revealed that the group’s generosity helped her manage her PTSD.
The kindness displayed in the “Buy Nothing” group became a stark contrast to the increasingly isolated and self-focused world around us. I was navigating my patients’ stresses, my children’s online schooling, and the monotonous routine of grocery sanitization. After losing my fifth colleague to COVID, someone offered a brand-new vibrator, humorously captioned, “self-care takes all forms during a crisis.” Following yet another Zoom funeral, someone offered their apartment to a first responder. And when a woman shared her heartbreaking story of losing a baby, the group rallied to provide her with comfort and practical support.
As the true weight of the pandemic settled in, we collectively recognized our need for a space defined solely by kindness. The evolving dynamics of the group mirrored the changes we needed to embrace within our relationship.
Beneath our bond, there had likely always been an undercurrent of fear rooted in my childhood experiences. Growing up, my father’s expectations shaped my identity. I pored over Scrabble books to impress him and sacrificed my own interests for his approval. When I finally chose not to pursue law school, his disappointed reaction was crushing. I realized that my desire to please him had never brought me happiness, a bitter truth I eventually had to confront.
Through years of therapy, I unraveled the tangled threads of my identity and sought to craft a new narrative as a parent. I believed that by encouraging my daughter to express her emotions, I was offering her a different path from my own. Yet, during our arguments or late-night heart-to-hearts, I didn’t see how my need for connection had eclipsed her individual journey.
I realized that my daughter’s anger wasn’t the issue; it was my own fear of her experiencing challenges I had narrowly escaped. Her journey was hers to navigate, not mine to dictate. Surprisingly, my expectations were just as suffocating for her as my father’s had been for me. Unlike my younger self, she wasn’t inclined to succumb to them.
One day, while sitting at the edge of her bed, I said, “I’m trying — I really am trying to understand you.” She looked at me with frustration and said, “I just don’t want you to know me anymore. I don’t even know who I am!” She was correct.
After Thanksgiving, I posted in the Buy Nothing group asking for a turkey wishbone, a tradition my mom had maintained for my daughter. Someone quickly responded, and after a contactless pickup, I carried the wishbone home, carefully wrapped.
As I unveiled it, I anticipated her disdain. Instead, she beamed. “I want to make a wish,” she declared. “Hold on tightly,” I instructed. She pulled on the wishbone, and as it snapped, our eyes met, and I let go.
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