Sep 23
There is a quiet weight in confronting the echoes of my past—those unresolved shadows that stretch across my childhood.
For as long as I can remember, I longed to be just like the other Canadian kids around me. I wanted to eat and play as they did, to be tucked in at night, to feel nurtured and know, without a doubt, that I was loved. I wanted to wake up excited to see my parents, to have that warmth and certainty that comes with being seen and cared for. But it didn’t dawn on me, not until much later, that perhaps my parents never received the kind of love I craved. That thought sits heavy in my heart.
My parents, bound by necessity, spent countless nights laboring under factory lights, leaving my sister—just a year and a half my elder—to raise my brother and me. Their lives were a testament to survival, and we all bear the marks of their resilience, inheriting their tireless work ethic. Yet, amid their sacrifices, I was acutely aware of the unhappiness that lingered in our home. They had come to Canada seeking brighter futures for us, but their own light often dimmed under the weight of that burden.
I walked on eggshells throughout my childhood, scraping affection like scraps left on a plate, unsure whether it was cultural, circumstantial, or simply the outcome of immigrant parents navigating a world that gave them so little. They did what they could—provided a roof over my head, food on the table—but it never quite felt like enough. It left me wondering: did they not know how to show up when I needed them most?
I carry immense gratitude for what they gave, but my childhood was painted in muted tones—missing the warmth of love, the spark of encouragement, the embrace of comfort. My father, intense and unyielding, ruled with a strictness that blurred into harshness. For years, alcohol filled the spaces between us, and fear was the language spoken in our home. I grew up on the edges, always the black sheep, never truly embraced, and never fully seen.
Now, with time, the distance has softened. My parents have found solace and purpose in their faith, spending the last quarter-century as missionaries, wandering across Hawaii, Senegal, and now Cape Verde. It has given them the community and belonging they once lacked. While I do not walk the same path of belief, I respect the purpose it has given them. Our relationship, though complex, has grown. There are moments of understanding, but still, we do not always see the world through the same lens.
They visit when they can, and though the space between us is no longer as vast, it remains. I love them. They are my parents. And as time unfolds, I hope that one day the answers I seek will come—not through lectures or misunderstandings, but through the slow and quiet work of healing. For now, I leave them to their journey, as I continue mine, trusting that in time, we will meet somewhere in the middle.
— Sincerely Boris
For as long as I can remember, I longed to be just like the other Canadian kids around me. I wanted to eat and play as they did, to be tucked in at night, to feel nurtured and know, without a doubt, that I was loved. I wanted to wake up excited to see my parents, to have that warmth and certainty that comes with being seen and cared for. But it didn’t dawn on me, not until much later, that perhaps my parents never received the kind of love I craved. That thought sits heavy in my heart.
My parents, bound by necessity, spent countless nights laboring under factory lights, leaving my sister—just a year and a half my elder—to raise my brother and me. Their lives were a testament to survival, and we all bear the marks of their resilience, inheriting their tireless work ethic. Yet, amid their sacrifices, I was acutely aware of the unhappiness that lingered in our home. They had come to Canada seeking brighter futures for us, but their own light often dimmed under the weight of that burden.
I walked on eggshells throughout my childhood, scraping affection like scraps left on a plate, unsure whether it was cultural, circumstantial, or simply the outcome of immigrant parents navigating a world that gave them so little. They did what they could—provided a roof over my head, food on the table—but it never quite felt like enough. It left me wondering: did they not know how to show up when I needed them most?
I carry immense gratitude for what they gave, but my childhood was painted in muted tones—missing the warmth of love, the spark of encouragement, the embrace of comfort. My father, intense and unyielding, ruled with a strictness that blurred into harshness. For years, alcohol filled the spaces between us, and fear was the language spoken in our home. I grew up on the edges, always the black sheep, never truly embraced, and never fully seen.
Now, with time, the distance has softened. My parents have found solace and purpose in their faith, spending the last quarter-century as missionaries, wandering across Hawaii, Senegal, and now Cape Verde. It has given them the community and belonging they once lacked. While I do not walk the same path of belief, I respect the purpose it has given them. Our relationship, though complex, has grown. There are moments of understanding, but still, we do not always see the world through the same lens.
They visit when they can, and though the space between us is no longer as vast, it remains. I love them. They are my parents. And as time unfolds, I hope that one day the answers I seek will come—not through lectures or misunderstandings, but through the slow and quiet work of healing. For now, I leave them to their journey, as I continue mine, trusting that in time, we will meet somewhere in the middle.
— Sincerely Boris
