If you could go back in time and give your younger self advice, what would it be?
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“You need to grow a thicker skin,” she proclaimed with the confidence of someone who’s always been comfortable in hers.
My eyes darted to the darkest corner of the room and lingered.
The pregnant pause in our exchange broke as Mom’s voice softened. “It’s a harsh world out there.”
I drew my gaze back towards her, secretly hoping it would alter the usual trajectory of these uncomfortable childhood moments…
You see, I’m someone who cries over a cat food commercial, a tender moment in a sitcom, and a lonely snowflake on a winter morning.
This has been a bit of a problem, because I come from people who survived by not feeling things out loud.
Mom and Dad were displaced into the Western world as refugees.
They were stripped of their jobs, their possessions, their savings, and, most importantly, the place they called home. Mom brushes it off. “We were young…” she says, as her voice trails off into distant memories carefully tucked away.
They rebuilt their lives from the contents of their suitcase: a couple of saris, a few toiletries, and a quiet hope that maybe it would all be okay again.
“Not dwelling on things” was a survival strategy.
One that I failed to inherit.
As a child, I’d squeeze my eyes shut tight and try my best to will this so-called “thicker skin” into existence… like an Iron Man suit that shoots lasers and has a built-in snooze button for gory TV shows, large crowds, and cat food commercials.
I never did grow that thicker skin.
I just stopped criticizing myself for having the skin I have… and it turns out most of the sting was from the second hit.
I’m not sure I wish my younger self had known this, though.
Because sometimes I wonder…
Perhaps my parents survived by not dwelling on things so that I could have the luxury of doing so.
