My Francis Forever

Learning to Let Myself Be Seen

In a song called Francis Forever, Mitski sings,

I don’t need the world to see
That I’ve been the best I can be, but
I don’t think I could stand to be
Where you don’t see me

And listening to that at 3 AM, I cried. I always thought it was a breakup song, but it hit differently this time. I couldn’t easily put my feelings into words, though.

This year, I started asking myself whether I felt whole. The answer was always no. I didn’t even know what it was supposed to mean, because the idea was so foreign. I was always more accustomed to the feeling of not being enough, anxiety that I’m behind, and stress that I have to perform better. I didn’t feel seen, even though I’ve always tried to be the best I could be.

But I think I felt it for the first time, very recently. There are depths to it, but to focus on just the feelings, my heart feels physically light, and I feel content. Nothing is chasing me down the street (literally and figuratively), and I don’t have to perform or hide.

But let’s go back to how I never felt seen before. I’ve always struggled to prove to my parents how hard-working, high-achieving and low-maintenance I am. I was constantly under stress and anxiety, and it felt like this feeling of weight on my heart was never going to disappear. It was quite scary.

I remember when I was in university, I couldn’t sleep because my heart was racing too fast due to stress to perform. I felt like a failure and that it’s all my fault because my parents always provided me with a stable environment financially, tried to provide me with diverse experiences they never got to have as children, and most importantly, they’re loving and supportive. At the time, I was a final-year student in one of the top universities in all of Asia, where I was a student ambassador, a researcher in a leading AI lab, was working two jobs (one as a content creator and the other as a coding bootcamp instructor), and was surrounded by supportive friends whom I deeply cared for. And yet I still felt like a failure.

I graduated from uni and started working as an engineer at a startup. Years of trying to perform and achieve finally started taking a toll on me, and I started showing symptoms of depression and anxiety. My room was disgusting, and I couldn’t lift a finger. My parents, being conservative Gen Xers, showed disapproval of my life and my career. I couldn’t pick up their calls because my heart would race with anxiety if I saw their names pop up on my phone. I went partying all night with friends because that was my only escape. I don’t think I truly opened up to them about how difficult life was for me; how I was still trying my best not to show this part of myself at work by being a productive member of the team, but I would be too exhausted at home, which was the only part of my life they were witnessing.

When they told me they were disappointed with how I wasn’t doing anything at home, not fulfilling any of my responsibilities at home and avoiding their phone calls, it confirmed what I’ve always been thinking to myself. I’m only loved when I make them proud with achievements and make them comfortable by making myself invisible. And they told me that they couldn’t invest in my master’s programme if I kept behaving that way, and that confirmed that I’m a failure. I wasn’t worth not only their investment but their love and attention. I wasn’t mad at my parents; I was disgusted by myself, and I dug into a hole.

When I started going to therapy this year, the first few weeks were truly disorienting. I would talk to my therapist about life in general, but I would get especially emotional whenever I talked about the relationship with my parents. So we dug deeper. We found out that I’ve been feeling extremely alone growing up, and that I had to be high-achieving but always kind and ever-understanding of others, while making my needs invisible, to be the perfect daughter they deserved. Instead of being confident in myself, I was seeking validation from them, which I wasn’t getting anymore, and it felt terrible. Around this time, I wrote in my journal,

“I’m too grown and big now to fit into their mould, and I feel like they don’t want the parts that peak out of that mould. That’s why I feel so unseen and disapproved of only after I became an adult.”

“I was so proud that I never caused trouble… but now I’m so sad that little me felt that way… children are supposed to make mistakes.”

But when I get home to my parents’ place, my mum would have prepared a warm meal for me, and my dad would buy me a cup of milk tea, and we’d talk about random stuff like life philosophy, politics, or the books we’re reading. That was my family’s way of love, and I knew and felt loved. And that was the disorienting part: I didn’t know whether to feel resentful (what I felt in therapy) or loved (what I always and still felt in their presence). I even felt like I was making up a terrible and lonely childhood that wasn’t based in reality, because I had to blame someone for all the hurt.

So I tried to tell myself not to feel resentful. I knew for a fact they loved me, and I did want to spend more time with them, so there was no reason to feel that way. Also, it felt like a sin to feel so. One of my first breakthroughs in therapy was that two very different feelings could coexist, because the reality is often very nuanced, never black or white. And that my feelings are valid and should be free from judgment. I understood this logically, but I didn’t know how, because I’ve been too used to denying, repressing and intellectualising all my feelings and needs.

I was crying when I said I could never resent my parents because I understood them. I was taught to be the kind girl who could extend her empathy towards everyone, not just to the ones I love, but even those who hurt me. Then my therapist asked me why that empathy never directs inward; why I’m so harsh to myself when I’m such an understanding person. She showed tears while calmly asking me that. Her tears seemed too sincere. I froze. I couldn’t open up anymore and stopped crying.

I went home and thought about what her tears meant and why I froze at that moment. I believed we had a business relationship: I would pay for her to listen to me, and as a professional, she would ask appropriate questions and show appropriate reactions to guide me a certain way. I felt terrible for her because if she takes in all her clients’ trauma and tears with her heart wide open like that, it would take a toll on her. And it meant that she wasn’t a robot performing sympathy; she was human. When I asked her the next week what her tears meant, she told me she was moved by my story. The explanation didn’t really click. But I still trusted her, and we were generally building a great rapport.

Then one day, when I was at home peacefully petting my cat, my parents told me about how the government is planning to generate a thousand AI-related jobs in the biggest companies in Korea, like Samsung and SK, and that I should try applying. I couldn’t respond because it felt like they were invalidating the career I was already building as an ML engineer. My mum expressed that when I go silent like that, she feels like she’s always on edge, not to hurt my feelings, whenever she tries to talk to me about these things. So I opened up to them about how these suggestions make me feel like they are invalidating my career — and that it feels terrible since I’ve always felt like making them proud for my success was the key to their love.

When I started, I couldn’t stop. I told them I felt lonely growing up, that they were never around, at work during the day and playing badminton in the evening. I thought they would get defensive and tell me how great they were at parenting, providing me with everything I needed and more (that was my projection since I’ve always put them on a pedestal). But instead, they apologised and admitted that we might not have had enough bonding time together in my childhood. My dad said he was still in his 30s when I was young, and grabbing drinks with friends was his way of alleviating stress, and that he regrets not spending enough quality time with me.

I felt like I burdened my parents with guilt, and that was never my intention. So I hurriedly told him that he didn’t have to apologise because I understood how difficult it must have been to spend quality time with me, as working parents, when a double-income was the only way in our society to provide financial security. Especially now as an adult with a job myself, I understood how essential it is for everyone to spend time with friends and have hobbies, and parents are no exception. I added that I know they must have done the best they could. My dad’s response was very unexpected, but strangely healing. He said he loves me, but he doesn’t think that he did his absolute best. It was healing because it made me realise that my parents are human. I didn’t have to put them on a pedestal anymore. The burden from the idea that I caused everything, all my distress and failures, somehow got alleviated. Not because I was putting the burden of blame on them, but because I got to see their human side, and I wasn’t blaming myself.

I could finally understand why I’ve felt so lonely, under constant stress, and constantly seeking validation, given the circumstances. My being broken wasn’t solely on me: it was on the society that didn’t let working-class parents spend quality time with their children; it was also on my parents, who loved me but still had to go to work, meet friends, and play badminton (which they had to and deserved); it was also on little me who learned that minimising my need and showing my parents a perfect report card was the only way I could be seen by them (and I don’t blame myself for it). I could finally extend my empathy not just to my loved ones, not just to those who hurt me, but finally even to myself. I know how painful and inhumane it is to always do my best and be my best self, so I was glad my dad didn’t “do his best” and slowly burn himself out. I’m glad my parents didn’t put in their 200% in raising me, giving up on friendships and hobbies, because that would have crushed their souls and made them resent me, just like how I crushed my soul and hated myself.

The hours-long conversation ended with my parents reassuring me that all they want from me is for me to live a happy, balanced life, and that they are always there to support me. I felt truly seen and understood by them for the first time, and I was also seeing my parents as human beings trying to live their best lives. Sometimes struggling and failing, but with constant, steady love and the best of intentions.

And I told my therapist in the next session how that conversation was the missing piece I was looking for, and how it healed me a little from the inside. She asked me what my takeaway was. I had to give it a little thought, and realised that I’ve always felt unseen and misunderstood because I was too scared of being vulnerable that I never gave my parents a chance to hear where I’m coming from. People who loved and cared for me were willing to listen to me and understand me if I had just let them by opening up. But despite their willingness, if I don’t speak my truth and express my needs and hurt, they wouldn’t know, since they’re not psychic.

I suddenly had more courage to open up after that realisation, so I told my therapist about how I felt about her tears in the previous sessions. How her tears made her suddenly human, and that seeing her as a person with emotions made it uncomfortable for me to open up as freely as I did before, because I thought she would carry those emotions back home and be burdened by my tears. Then, after talking to my parents, it was easier to open up to her again somehow. She asked me why a conversation with my parents made it easier to talk to her. She always asks the simplest yet toughest questions.

I told her that opening up to my parents was extremely difficult, and when I did, the emotions that I had denied and repressed my entire life came flooding in, so I couldn’t help but cry my eyes out. But despite that, my parents were chill. They calmly accepted that there was a lack of quality time spent together and emotional openness in our family. They expressed their sincere love and support for me and thanked me for opening up. Then they seemed to have a good night’s sleep and continued with their lives the next morning. My mum went to work, and my dad had an off day, so he worked out in the morning and suggested we go for lunch. Even when I poured out my emotions and was completely vulnerable in front of them, it didn’t seem to burden them too much.

It felt like my emotions weren’t too burdensome to others. That felt fucking great to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around me, that people can hold space for others while keeping their lives unaffected. And I told my therapist that’s why talking to my parents made it easier for me to open up to her again. There were tears in her eyes again, and this time, I understood why. I was carrying the emotional burden that I assumed she could have had as a therapist and was caring for her, worrying that I was burdening her, like I worried I could burden my parents with guilt when I opened up about how I felt lonely. Probably her tears meant she felt understood and cared for by me, even if it was unexpected and even unnecessary.

She told me that she sometimes brings emotional residue back home from work, even if she wishes she didn’t. But she does, since she’s human. However, those emotional residues are whether she’s done her job as a therapist right, and if that was the best she could do, and it’s not the same as carrying all the weight of her clients’ stories and emotions. And she said with sincerity and certainty, “Your opening up doesn’t burden me. I thank you for being open because it makes me proud that I’ve done a good job as a therapist. And I’m proud of you for making so much progress.” My therapist and I were seeing each other human to human, even if it was in a professional setting, and that’s why she cried, not because my emotions were too much for her to handle. It made me understand that I didn’t have to make myself invisible and low-maintenance to be a good daughter, a good friend, a good person in general, or even a good client to a therapist.

And circling back to how I started this story, I woke up the next day feeling whole. Nothing too special, just content, with a huge weight lifted off my chest. And somehow I felt confident. I had support and care from my parents, my friends, and now my therapist. All along, there was a safety net that I never asked for, but it was just invisible because I never vocalised that I felt scared and in need of it. And it felt great to feel seen by my parents, not because of an achievement or how kind I was to others, but because I’m ... well, me. I am loved, and they have my back even if I fail. What I needed from my parents wasn’t validation, it was support, understanding and trust. And I realised my confidence was still there, I had built it brick by brick by working hard, in school, in my career, in working on myself, and in being a good person to those around me. Those bricks seemed like ruins when I couldn’t even see my own worth, but they were still there.

I don’t know how I’ll feel next week, next month, next year, or even in a new chapter of life. But currently, I feel like I can give that trust and validation to myself, because even at my worst, I’ve been making baby steps, but steps nevertheless, forward. FUCK YEAH, NEW BRICK. It’s not that I don’t feel lost. I don’t feel like I’ve figured it all out, but I feel confident enough to give it another try.

And I think I’ve rarely said this, although I’ve always felt it, but Mum, Dad, you were there from day one, and I love you from the bottom of my heart. I feel like a tall child who still needs you to trust me, but I know you’ll be there. You let go of my bicycle a little too early because you trusted me more than I did myself, so I’ll keep looking back if you’re still there until I feel stable, and I carefully ask you to keep waving that you’re still there.