The Weight We Inherit

on mothers, memory, and the art of coming back to yourself

My family was in Charleston for Mother’s Day weekend.

On their last night, I cooked dinner: lamb areyas and chicken shawarma, roasted parmesan-herb potatoes, and homemade tzatziki. The house smelled like garlic and cumin and lemon zest. I had been doing well — grounded, soft, steady in myself.

But throughout the week, my mom kept poking. Little comments. Constant criticism. About my weight. My clothes. My health. Every day, a small remark. Every day, a little more chipped away.

Then — as I was finishing dinner — I overheard her talking to my mother-in-law. She said she didn’t understand why my weight wasn’t under control. That I don’t even eat that much. That something must be off.

She kept going.

That was the moment something shifted.

I felt it — a familiar ache blooming in my gut. Then the rage came, fast and consuming. I walked out. Asked Mike to keep an eye on the oven. I needed five minutes.

I went into my closet and broke down.

Not a soft, poetic cry. A full-body unraveling.

My childhood self showed up and we cried together — for the version of me still trying so hard to be good. To be understood. To be enough.

I missed my father. The one who left. The one who didn’t come back. But in all my memories, he made me feel like I was the best. The greatest. The most beautiful.

There’s something about my mother’s presence that brings out the parts of me I work so hard to unlearn.

And I let her — because, like Eleanor Roosevelt once said:
“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

Still, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

I have compassion for my mother. I really do. She lost both her parents at a young age. And culturally, there’s so much judgment. So much pressure. So many unspoken expectations.

I grew up hearing I was “fat” — not just from her, but from aunties too. Women who piled second helpings onto my plate even when I said no. The contradiction sat heavy: be smaller, but don’t refuse what’s given.

I know I’m not the only one who’s been through this.

And yes, I know I’m lucky my mother is still alive.

But fuck. It’s hard.

A friend once sent me a voice note that said maybe, on some cosmic level, we choose our families — that we’re given the people we need to move through this life.

Still, I’m not always sure what I’m meant to learn.

Because being around my mother makes me feel like nothing I do is enough.

While I sat in that closet, I cried and asked myself:
Am I a bad person?

And the resounding answer was:
No. I’m not a bad person.

Would I be more worthy if I was a few pant sizes smaller?

No.

I used to get teased for being too sensitive. Too emotional. For crying easily.

I’m still soft. But there’s a difference now.

Maybe it’s the meditations. Maybe it’s the witnessing. But I no longer confuse softness for weakness. I can see what’s mine and what’s not.

I wiped my tears and told myself: I am a good person. I have a rare heart. I am beautiful.

And I don’t need anyone — not even my parents — to validate that for me.

I walked into that kitchen, saw my sister (who I love deeply), and made a kickass lamb dinner for the ages.

Did my mom tell me I wasn’t chopping garlic correctly?
Yes.

Did she try to show me the right way to wash the dishes?
Also yes.

But we love her anyway.

I confronted her the next morning. Gently. I didn’t want to speak from anger. I just asked her not to talk about my health or my weight again.

She nodded while staring at the TV. Said she’s never criticized me. Said she didn’t mean it.

Because she’s my mother.

But let’s agree to disagree.

She experienced the same moment — just through a different lens.

Is it still painful?
Yes.

But we love her anyway.

We take steps to protect ourselves.

But for now, I’m just noticing — how the habit of tearing myself to shreds has shaped me. How this inner critic, inherited and sharpened over time, has touched every part of my life.

My addiction to self-blame. To overcomplicating. To trying so hard to be perfect, just to avoid being misunderstood.

But the gift of awareness is this:

Once we see ourselves clearly, we can unlearn almost anything.

You have a good cry.
And then you love yourself a little more that day.

Don’t let the emotions control you.
Let them carry you to the shore,
so you can feel the sand and the ground beneath your feet again.

Everything is going to be okay.

Love you, Mom.