I Don’t Need Permission

“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.”

-Audre Lorde 

I will be the first to admit that I am far from perfect; I am constantly making mistakes. But to be frank, this assertion clashes with my very vocal inner critic, one that chastises me for not meeting unrealistic, “perfect”  expectations. 

But wait—stop complaining, and be grateful for what you have. 

I am aware of how my vignette reflects a larger practice for other immigrants and their descendants in this country, many maintaining meritocratic narratives rooted in White supremacist, patriarchal norms which silence diverse experiences and perspectives. 

Such narratives bear high expectations that frown on deviations, as if the struggles of not having or being aren’t enough. As an educator, I’ve seen this repeated time and time again in a multitude of settings: as a K-12 teacher and museum educator I saw this through students disassociated and disconnected, distrustful of teachers and other authority figures. As a university writing consultant, I see this during consultations—students hesitating to name their realities, exhibiting apologetic shame and embarrassment at appearing “different.”

It is in sharing such observations that I push against unrealistic and harmful perceptions of what being a student “should” be, particularly a student of color. It is also through continuously revealing layers of my own story that I desire to strengthen my own voice. 

But wait—stop complaining, and be grateful for what you have. 

My own story also was bred from the throes of survival mentality: as a parentified first-generation-born daughter of immigrants, I was expected to successfully navigate school and career, guiding others around me to do the same. As a young female, patriarchal norms dictated I wasn’t smart, fast, or assertive enough; furthermore, I was often assumed too passive, emotional, or ignorant. I was raised to be submissive, and trying to assert myself often labeled me disobedient or “too American.” My lived reality didn’t allow space to be authentic, my call of duty being to help the family succeed rather than to incur shame through “selfish” thoughts or actions. 

What’s equally tragic is watching male family members and loved ones equally mired in the same harmful narratives of toxic masculinity, which tear down at the parts of themselves not considered  “machismo” enough. Indeed, assimilation is doing the work it set out to do, Whiteness lauded as a form of superiority over the brownness I and so many others descend from.

But wait—stop complaining, and be grateful for what you have. 

Like others in survival mode, addressing mental health concerns were a non sequitur, bandaged with practices like pushing through, projecting on others, reminders to “just pray.” I can’t count the number of times I felt disheartened, fantasized about escape, and even of ending it all. I learned early on that masking my true emotions provided the protection I needed to survive in any given moment.

Lacking the space and emotional safety to openly express myself fed into the anxious attachments I’ve historically grappled with. Though life provided happy memories, it’s these negative experiences that have influenced inclinations to react without pausing, fostering an impulse to problem-solve for others. I suspect my own self-declarations of trying to “change the world” are partially rooted in a desire to be seen as “helpful,” to finally prove I belong. 

But wait—stop complaining, and be grateful for what you have. 

These experiences and identities shaped me into the person I am today, but from a different perspective, have developed the strong sense of empathy that protects and inspires others—this same empathy, ironically, is what I’ve needed to give myself this entire time.  

Time, reflection, and healing have uncovered layers of my own voice and an unwillingness to cower behind a victim mentality. I’m not used to setting such expectations for myself, and yet, I see the benefits of doing so. 

This desire for growth is twofold, first granted through the permission and grace to be my imperfect self. Decades of pushing beyond exhaustion have only warped perceptions of what I can realistically achieve, making me more susceptible to burnout and illness. Striving to embrace imperfections is a lifelong process, one requiring intention, awareness, rest and soothing over shame. These gains aren’t a push against family or culture, but rather against oppressive systems that demand folx of color unceasingly toil toward capitalistic gains.

Second, I need to remember that prioritizing my growth affects those around me: years of watching family neglect themselves to help others is a practice I’ve pivoted away from. It’s been work to remind myself that true love doesn’t equate to enmeshment or codependency, but rather honesty, patience, and commitment. Fostering my own growth means seeking out and surrounding myself with folx who are able–or at least working toward—demonstrating the same love and respect for me that I endeavor for within myself. 

I acknowledge the privileges I hold in naming such desires, and though I can pause to be grateful for what I have, I can simultaneously fight toward the same opportunities my parents fought tooth and nail for in moving to this country, as well as to fight for the rights that so many deserve.

Though my past didn’t allow space for my personality, it’s always laid there, dormant and now lovingly unearthed, extracted, and increasingly more powerful than ever. Though I have spaces with which to grow—particularly in regard to stepping back from “fixing” or pausing to respond, not react—these are practices I will refine with time and effort in developing my more balanced, authentic self. 

I will be the first to admit that I am far from perfect; I am constantly making mistakes. And yet to be frank, I know I’m not the only one doing so–after all, I’m only human. And part of being human is realizing that I will never be perfect to anyone, including myself.  I’m learning to be ok with that. Additionally, I’m realizing the choices I make don’t have to be a direct reaction to my past experiences, but can indeed be reflective of the person I’d like to be at the end of this very short time called life.