Issue No. 72

As I grow older, I think I start to realize my parents even better.

Think about it, for many of us, we probably did not know a lot of things about them. Like how were they like when they were kids, in high school, what were their hobbies, their favorite past time, the music they listened to. I think often we forget our parents were once like us—young, naive, and explorative people.

It's funny, really, how much I took for granted. I always saw my parents as just that—parents. They were the ones who made sure I did my homework, who told me to be careful when I left the house, who paid the bills and planned the vacations. In my mind, they were these responsible, somewhat stern figures who had it all together. It’s almost as if they existed solely to be my parents, like they popped into the world fully formed just to raise me.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to see them as people—real, complicated, and layered individuals. I remember the first time I saw a photo of my Mama as a teenager, with big, curly hair and bright, bold fashion that screamed the era she grew up in. She looked so different, so carefree, and suddenly, I was curious. What was she like back then? What did she dream about? What kept her up at night? My Mama, with her no-nonsense attitude and sharp tongue, has always been quick with a remark that’s equal parts insightful and biting. I’m pretty sure I inherited my sarcasm from her. She has this way of cutting through the noise with a well-timed comment, often with a side of humor that’s as dry as it is clever.

And then there’s my Papa, who I used to think was the most serious man on the planet. But the truth is, my Papa loves to joke around. He’s got this sharp, quick wit that always catches me off guard and makes everyone around him laugh. I think I got my sense of humor from him. He’s the kind of person who can find the funny side of almost anything, turning even the most mundane moments into something to smile about.

But my parents weren’t perfect. When I was around eight years old, life took a turn. They started taking turns going out of the country to work in different places. It was their way of trying to secure a better future for me, but it meant I had to learn to be independent at a young age, raised mostly by my grandma. It was tough, but I understood they did it because they wanted to give me a good life, even if it meant being apart from me for long stretches of time.

Still, there were moments when I didn’t see it that way. I sometimes regret the times I voiced my frustrations about the state of our family. Our financial difficulties meant that I couldn’t go to college, and I often complained, forgetting that my parents were doing everything they could. They were sacrificing so much, and all I did was focus on what we didn’t have, instead of appreciating what they were trying to build for me.

Now, as I reflect on those years, I see things differently. I realize how hard they tried and how much they endured, all for my sake. I’m trying to be better than them—not because I think I’m more capable, but because I want to give justice to their sacrifice. I want to honor everything they did by striving to achieve the dreams they had for me, even if the path looks different now.

These glimpses into their pasts have changed the way I see them. They’re not just my parents anymore; they’re people with their own histories, with dreams that might not have come true and others that did in ways they never expected. They’ve faced struggles I’ll never fully understand and joys they might not have words to describe.

It’s a humbling realization, knowing that they’ve lived whole lives outside of their role as my parents. It makes me appreciate them in a new way, as individuals who have given so much of themselves to raise me, but who also have their own stories, their own identities that go beyond “Mama” and “Papa.”

As I continue to grow, I find myself wanting to know more about them, to hear their stories and understand the people they were before I came along. Because in doing so, I feel like I’m not just getting to know my parents better; I’m also getting to know myself. Their pasts are part of my story too, and the more I learn, the more connected I feel to them, and to the person I’m becoming.

Until next week,