When I think about my parents at my age, I mostly remember one thing:
They were working.
All the time.
From early in the morning until late at night, they worked like dogs just to keep everything going. Just to make sure we had food, clothes, a roof over our heads.
They were tired… always tired.
Sometimes it feels like we grew up half on our own.
Like we learned things by ourselves.
Like we became independent a little too early.
They didn’t always have the time to sit with us, talk with us, or be present in the soft, slow way parents try to be today.
But I don’t blame them.
Not even a little.
They were doing the best they could with what they had.
They didn’t show love with words or long afternoons together.
They showed it by sacrificing themselves.
By coming home exhausted.
By worrying about bills.
By putting us first, every single day.
And somehow, through all that chaos and hard work… we grew up strong.
Resilient.
Independent.
Capable.
Maybe we raised ourselves a little —
but they built the ground we stood on.
Now that I’m a parent too, I understand them more than ever.
And more than anything, I just feel grateful.
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