When parents say "My child, go to school, get big doctor-engineer degree / get married / give me grandchildren / make good money to take care of the whole family... and make me happy,”
they really mean
"My child, I wish I could go back and do some things over again. If I had a second chance, I would study something different, I would marry someone different, I would handle money different, I wish I made different choices so our life could be different... I never got to learn what makes me happy".
I believe God gives parents the children they need (not want)1. The children they need to recognize the possibilities of happiness they've denied themselves. I take this belief as proof that I am wanted and willed —not just by the woman who birthed me, but by a Greater Divine Entity.
I am wanted and was willed into being because I am the child my mother needs. I am the child that says:
maman chérie,
you've no idea how much happiness i want to pull from the seams of life and thread into the prettiest, 32-pearls-wide smile for you. you think because i’m “just a child”, i've no idea —can’t comprehend— the expanses of your motherly love. how you'd will the seas to part just by prayer hands and eyes commanding waves to a halt with half a glare. how you’d chart a direct path to me wherever i am, wherever i hurt, wherever i joy.
times when i’ve felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness at best and suicidal ideation at worst, you'd call me, not be able to reach me, and you'd leave me messages saying: i love you so much, my eldest, ma puce, my most precious gift in life, my wanted and willed2.
you must know, then, that your love for me and my love for you are two looping ends of an infinity symbol. no telling where one begins and the other ends. and i guess, that's why you think your happiness is my happiness. i used to believe so, too.
but these days i hear something different when you ask me, "don't you want to [get married / get big degree / have kids] and make maman happy?"
i hear the desires you’ve tried to bury with your youth. i hear the voice that you don’t recognize in yourself —the one you say wants the best for me, but really is speaking to you.
maman,
it's not too late to experience all the happiness you desire. don’t wait for me to live your dreams. don’t wait for anyone to give you permission to start over. again. again. as many times as you need. you can change your mind; you can say “no. no more. my life will be different.” you can choose different on any random tuesday afternoon when the sun boasts it’s proudest —without a care for who appreciates and basks or runs for shade from its rays. when the sun boasts its proudest, maman, take it as a sign from God that you are just as big and important, worth all the warmth and care you give so freely. and the more you change, maman, the more some people will miss you —the old you. they’ll regret not basking in your radiance, they’ll forget their place and get too close. they’ll be burned. you are too hot to be touched by any-regular-body, to be treated like any-regular-body, to be talked to like any-regular-body.
maman,
i feel your impatience. i feel that you're suffocated. i feel your need for attention and affection, care and consideration. and i promise, it's not too late. it’s not too late to go where all that will be given to you. i mean, you look 10 years younger than your actual age. i've been told i'll age like you and you confirmed the other day by asking me, "are you sure there's no suitors, my child? are you sure? you look younger every day, are you sure?"
maman,
use the gifts the God you daily worship gave you: you're bright-eyed. fire-hearted. the wittiest, smartest, most charming in all of togoland. self-starter. resourceful. creative. and the cherry on top (for the ease you put on eyes)—tall and redboned. i have to ask you too:
are you sure there's no suitors? you don't even look like you're a mother of [redacted]; are you sure there's no suitors, maman?
maman,
i want you happy, but i can't make you happy the way you want to be made happy. the things you want me to do to make you happy are really things you're too scared to do for yourself. your desires for “the best for me” feel like demands for personal dreams deferred: a loving marriage, a big happy family, etc etc.
one day, i'll be happy, willing, and able to give you those things, but right now (and for a few more years), i can not. i have no desire for those things for myself.
maman chérie,
your life doesn’t have to end once you become a mother. let’s talk about your dreams, too. let’s talk about your future, too. you still have so much life to live. i know you feel that fire inside. it’s not asking you to to live your dreams through me or your other children —we’ll only disappoint you; as children so brashly do. the fire, the voice, and i are all saying:
maman chérie,
your life does not end after you give birth.
your life is yours before you are made a mother/wife/sister/daughter.
dream big-big-bigger. chase your desires to the sun and moon, never look back.
your life does not end after you give birth.
because my life is one big card of divination, i took myself on an Artist Date (23 March 2025) after this letter spilled out of me, and this was the t-shirt waiting for me on the Date. thank you, Brother Malcolm for speaking back + affirming my words. Grateful for today’s Communion.
author's note💌
thank you for reading, thinking with me, commenting + sharing <3
courageously yours, nu🧚🏿
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my mother tells me she always wanted kids, and lots of them. she always wanted to be a wife + mother, especially. God provided. i used to think i was an accident, but even though they both weren't prepared or "ready" to have me, my mother wanted and willed me into being. i've not always been happy to be here —on Earth, i mean. but the day she told me this, i started taking my place in this existence a little more serious. what a gift, to be wanted and willed.
What a beautiful post, Nunyala. As a child of a diasporic mother, who I also call maman (in Farsi it is this, too), I am touched. Bless her love + yours.
Incredible. I related so much.
What a beautiful post, Nunyala. As a child of a diasporic mother, who I also call maman (in Farsi it is this, too), I am touched. Bless her love + yours.