When love and care don't sound the way we need them to sound

Recently, my mom and I took some time to catch up over a video call.

At some point during our conversation, we ended up talking about my teenage years and my passions back then. A part of me wanted to withdraw from the conversation then, but I made the choice to stay.

To give you some background, I grew up in a very artistic household—my father had a dance studio and was a salsa dance pioneer. My mother, who went to law school, also was a dancer for some time. And my brother was a musician. The arts were a big part of life growing up, and I had an affinity for it from a young age. So when I was in my third year of high school, I wanted to transfer to an art school so that I could secure my spot in a major art institute in the capital city, Bellas Artes. At the time, I was already participating in musicals and modeling. I was young and driven, and transferring to this art school felt like the next step toward a career in the arts. I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to do, but was excited by the idea of acting. In the back of my mind, I had doubts about how that would even be possible, considering I rarely saw people who looked like me on screen. Still, being naive to some of those real-world problems felt secondary to my passion and energy.

As the conversation with my mom carried on, she did something that has always been a pet peeve of mine. She started boasting about herself in somewhat of a stern tone: “I took you out of [the arts]”; “I got you out of everything”; “Yes, I did it”; “I made the right choice, look at you now”; “I was right to do it.” 

Something in me tightened just then—I could feel it in my chest, that familiar mix of frustration and hurt. For context, I had broken some invisible house rules during my teenage years, like most teenagers have done. My parents used that slipup as an opportunity to ground me “for good.” In their eyes, a fitting punishment was to take me out of musicals, modeling, and anything that had to do with the arts. They assumed "that lifestyle" was going to be too much for me and would somehow lead me astray, despite the fact that I grew up with the arts all around me.

While I will never know if my mom was right, our relationship remains quite complicated. We have had numerous ups and downs over the years. But since the time of our reconciliation in 2024, I have made an effort to stay connected and communicate honestly with her.

So, after feeling stressed from her boasting, I decided to tap into some of my prior training and self-education in having difficult conversations and in nonviolent communication. I let my mom know how I felt. “The way you are communicating right now is hurtful to me," I said. "Some of the boasting and the reminders of how you were in control feel painful in the way you are expressing them.”

She replied, “Everything bothers you. You need to not be so easily bothered by things. Otherwise, life will be too hard for you. You’re being too sensitive.”

In the past, I would have stayed quiet, swallowed the discomfort, and moved on. But this time, I couldn’t. It felt important to honor my voice. So I told her, “I know you are trying to advise me and care for my future, but I have spent a lot of time with myself, and I already know that, yes, I am incredibly sensitive. In fact, there’s a term for it: HSP. And yes, life can feel really hard. But I have also accepted that part of me, and this is why I’m letting you know—unless you want me to pretend to be something I’m not?”

“No, of course not," she said. "I want you to be yourself.”

So I asked, “Then why are you saying that? What do you expect me to say after your comments? Why is there a need to boast about your control? It’s not like I had much of a choice—I was 14 years old and living under your roof ...” I added, “I’m sorry, but now that I’m a mom, too, I can’t picture myself speaking like that to my son—boasting about my control over him, to him or to others. So I’m trying to understand, why are you doing this?”

Her face completely changed. Her gaze dropped, and her tone softened. There was a pause I wasn't used to coming from her. Everything slowed down. And as she told me, “I just … I was just so worried about you,” my eyes widened, and I just observed her in silence.

“Being a single mom of three was incredibly hard," she said. "You were all eight years apart. I had to raise a baby, care for a young adult, and figure out how to be a mom to a teenager. I wasn’t sleeping. I was anxious and worried about anything that could happen to you ...” She continued, “I had been part of that world, and it’s not easy. I kept losing sleep worrying that something or someone could hurt you. At the moment, I felt like I had to do what was right. I needed to take care of you and make sure you didn’t go down that route.”

“So you were worried about me—that’s why you did it?” I asked.

“Yes.”

In that moment, I realized I had been hearing control for years, while she had been feeling fear. “I wish I had known that," I said. "The way you always communicated it to me felt quite harsh, to be honest, and it was hard for me to receive that from you.”

Then she said two words I needed to hear: “I’m sorry.”

The conversation kept softening, and I felt so moved. I could feel how easily love can turn into fear, and fear into control. I remember telling her, “I can relate to and understand your fears. As a mom, I already lose sleep about my son’s future, too.”

She apologized again.

I said, “I would have appreciated something like: ‘I’m really worried about you and your safety, and you will no longer be attending the musical. It wouldn’t feel right for me as your mom to let you continue something I have concerns about. You may not understand me now, but I’m coming from a place of love and care.'"

She was silent.

For years, I carried the story that my dreams had been taken away from me, and that I hadn’t been trusted to make decisions about my future. So I added, “That would have saved a lot of stress and misinterpretation.”

She apologized again.

In yoga, the concept of Svadhyaya calls for self-study. It invites us to look inward with honesty and compassion, to notice not only what we feel, but how we express it. It asks us to take responsibility for the way we communicate—our tone, our words, our timing—and to gently reflect on where there is room for growth. Sometimes, the work is not just in understanding ourselves, but in recognizing how our way of speaking can either create connection or deepen misunderstanding. How often do we misunderstand love when it doesn’t sound the way we need it to? How many relationships carry pain simply because we never learned how to say what we truly feel?

May we find courage in this full moon season to have honest and vulnerable conversations. May we learn to express what is truly in our hearts with clarity and care, and to listen with openness when others do the same. And may we remember that even in moments of tension, there is always an opportunity to choose understanding, to shift old patterns, and to create a new way of relating—one rooted in awareness, compassion, and truth.

If this reflection resonated with you, I'd love to continue the conversation.

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