I hate to admit that I’m my father’s daughter

An ode to being my father’s daughter and carrying my mother’s grief and rage

I hate to admit it but I’m definitely my father’s daughter. I carry his anger and rage like my armour whenever life throws certain battles and obstacles at me.

I hate to admit that I have his constant stubbornness and determination to prove I’m right. It’s my way or the highway, literally. I carry this stubbornness in my stride, as it holds my hand like a petulant child.

I hate to admit that I carry his grief for what could’ve been. The grief of his life back home, the constant yearning for his family whom he left behind in Pakistan and sacrificed himself for in order for myself and my siblings to make a life for ourselves here in the West. I carry this grief on my back like a bag filled with too many books, eventually collapsing under the weight of it all.

I hate to admit that I also carry his blindness to my mother’s rage and grief too. The blindness of not seeing the reality and how life really is, living in my own imagination to cope with the weight of it all. I carry his blindness with an ounce of guilt which weighs heavier each and every day. I gently place it down with each conversation that happens with my mother, piecing the foundations of the family back together in my mind.

I hate to admit it but I’m definitely my father’s daughter. I hope that can change one day as I’m learning little by little to carry these things in my own way rather than his.

I wear my mother’s grief like a loose dress that’s not meant for me, fitting perfectly in some places but not quite in others. I learn that she, too, had hopes and dreams but they all slowly faded away into the background once she married my father. I try my best to fit into the dress but put it to the side eventually, realising we’ll never have the same dreams or aspirations in life.

I wear my mother’s rage like it was meant for me only, fitting into those cracks of who I’m becoming. I deeply feel her pain at times. I learn that she, too, is simply exhausted by everything around her and just wants it all to stop for one day. I sit and embrace her rage realising that we have at least one thing in common but instead, I’m trying to heal both of our inner children at the same time.

I am my father’s daughter and my mother’s grief and rage. I hate to admit this is who I truly am but little by little, I am learning to take their actions as lessons for myself and my future children. I, maybe, want to show them both how it can change for the better rather than the worse.

A little quote dump to finish off:

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Hi everyone! I hope you’re all doing well. Here’s another short little piece from me and I’ve been debating whether to write on this topic or not, but writing this felt so cathartic in a way so I thought I’d share it with you guys too. Let me know what you think of this below!

Lots of love and hugs,

Halima <3