Content Warning: Family stuff. Obviously.
I’ve been thinking about the notion of family lately.
That there’s chosen family, and family you’re born into.
And that you can’t choose the family you’re born into, so as an adult you must choose how much to relate to them. Which parts of your life to let them into, and how deeply. Which joys and dreams and fears and hurts to open, and how much vulnerability to show.
That we’re hardwired to love our family unit, and that it hurts when things don’t happen the way they’re supposed to. When family dysfunctions.
The broken promise of unconditional love and support.
Realising for the first time that our parents, with all their wisdom and all of their experience, are wrong.
That they don’t know better, no matter how much they insist they do.
That I have used the gifts they gave me to become a better person than they are. That I’ve worked hard on it, and haven’t stopped trying.
I love my family. But I’m still working out in what ways, and how much. Still figuring out the limits of my boundaries, which ground I’m willing to give up and which ground I’ll stay firm in. The battles I’ll fight, and the ones I’ll let slide.
And I know that in all of this, all of us are just doing our best. Beautiful and broken.