“I Always Say I’m Okay”
I don’t usually talk about my mother.
Not because she isn’t part of my life,
but because she is, and that makes it complicated.
I love her. I really do.
And that’s what makes everything harder to explain, because sometimes love doesn’t feel soft. Sometimes it feels heavy. Sometimes it feels like something you have to survive.
A lot of bad things have happened between us.
Now I’m 17, and I keep trying to forgive her. Over and over again.
And every time I think maybe it’ll get better, it somehow gets worse.
She treats me like I’m the black sheep.
Like I’m the problem.
Like I’m the one who makes everything harder.
Even though I try.
I give her money when I can.
I help where I can.
Sometimes it feels like I take care of her more than she ever took care of me.
Because the truth is… she wasn’t really the one who raised me.
My grandmother was.
She’s the one who was there when I needed someone.
And now I live alone.
I have my own place.
My own space.
My own life.
But somehow… her words still reach me.
Still hurt me.
Today wasn’t even supposed to be a big thing.
I’m a Christian, and sometimes you go to church with people, brothers, sisters from church. I couldn’t go alone, and I already had a plan. My aunt was going to take me.
But then things changed.
My aunt had to work at 1 in the afternoon, and I had to be at church at 11 in the morning. So suddenly, I didn’t have a way anymore.
I didn’t even plan to ask my mother.
She wasn’t part of my plan at all.
But I had no choice.
I could’ve taken the bus…
but I didn’t have money on me.
So I asked her.
Just something simple:
“Are you going to be able to take me?”
She asked what time.
I said 11 in the morning.
And then she started explaining her plans, how she was coming to see me with my big brother, how she was going to drop him home, how she had work, how everything would have to change.
And then it came.
“Because of you, I have to change my plans.”
“Because of you, I have to go there early.”
“Because of you…”
Over and over again.
And I just stood there thinking…
I wasn’t even supposed to ask you.
You weren’t even part of this.
I only asked because I had no other choice.
But somehow, it turned into my fault.
And that’s how it always is.
Every single time.
When it’s my brother, everything is different.
He gets treated softly, like he matters more.
Like he’s the prince.
And me?
I’m the problem.
The burden.
The one who makes things difficult.
My head started to hurt.
Not just a normal headache,
but the kind that comes when you’re trying so hard not to feel everything at once.
And when the conversation ended, I didn’t say much.
I just told myself, quietly, over and over again:
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
They’re just words, right?
But they’re not.
Because people always say it’s your mother’s words that hurt the most.
And they’re right.
I’m just a child with feelings,
trying my best to stay here,
trying my best to keep going,
even when it feels like the person who’s supposed to make life easier
is making it harder instead.
And still…
when people ask me how I’m doing,
I say I’m okay.
I always say I’m okay.
Even when I don’t know what “okay” is supposed to feel like anymore.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 8:36 PM UTC
“I Always Say I’m Okay”
I don’t usually talk about my mother.
Not because she isn’t part of my life,
but because she is, and that makes it complicated.
I love her. I really do.
And that’s what makes everything harder to explain, because sometimes love doesn’t feel soft. Sometimes it feels heavy. Sometimes it feels like something you have to survive.
A lot of bad things have happened between us.
Now I’m 17, and I keep trying to forgive her. Over and over again.
And every time I think maybe it’ll get better, it somehow gets worse.
She treats me like I’m the black sheep.
Like I’m the problem.
Like I’m the one who makes everything harder.
Even though I try.
I give her money when I can.
I help where I can.
Sometimes it feels like I take care of her more than she ever took care of me.
Because the truth is… she wasn’t really the one who raised me.
My grandmother was.
She’s the one who was there when I needed someone.
And now I live alone.
I have my own place.
My own space.
My own life.
But somehow… her words still reach me.
Still hurt me.
Today wasn’t even supposed to be a big thing.
I’m a Christian, and sometimes you go to church with people, brothers, sisters from church. I couldn’t go alone, and I already had a plan. My aunt was going to take me.
But then things changed.
My aunt had to work at 1 in the afternoon, and I had to be at church at 11 in the morning. So suddenly, I didn’t have a way anymore.
I didn’t even plan to ask my mother.
She wasn’t part of my plan at all.
But I had no choice.
I could’ve taken the bus…
but I didn’t have money on me.
So I asked her.
Just something simple:
“Are you going to be able to take me?”
She asked what time.
I said 11 in the morning.
And then she started explaining her plans, how she was coming to see me with my big brother, how she was going to drop him home, how she had work, how everything would have to change.
And then it came.
“Because of you, I have to change my plans.”
“Because of you, I have to go there early.”
“Because of you…”
Over and over again.
And I just stood there thinking…
I wasn’t even supposed to ask you.
You weren’t even part of this.
I only asked because I had no other choice.
But somehow, it turned into my fault.
And that’s how it always is.
Every single time.
When it’s my brother, everything is different.
He gets treated softly, like he matters more.
Like he’s the prince.
And me?
I’m the problem.
The burden.
The one who makes things difficult.
My head started to hurt.
Not just a normal headache,
but the kind that comes when you’re trying so hard not to feel everything at once.
And when the conversation ended, I didn’t say much.
I just told myself, quietly, over and over again:
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
They’re just words, right?
But they’re not.
Because people always say it’s your mother’s words that hurt the most.
And they’re right.
I’m just a child with feelings,
trying my best to stay here,
trying my best to keep going,
even when it feels like the person who’s supposed to make life easier
is making it harder instead.
And still…
when people ask me how I’m doing,
I say I’m okay.
I always say I’m okay.
Even when I don’t know what “okay” is supposed to feel like anymore.