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Photo by Harris Vo on Unsplash

Here’s to us.

Here’s to the kids who lay in bed at night wondering who would take them in if they finally decided to leave. To the ones who dared to love something so much that it could be used to control them, to keep them in line. Here’s to the ones who suffered for their role as “model eldest child,” then wondered why their younger siblings seemed so much more confident, so much less broken. Here’s to the ones who still live because they decided early in life that suicide was a coward’s way out…and they were not cowards. To the ones who thought their parents must love their younger siblings more, or just hate and mistrust them an awful lot, to treat them that way.

Here’s to the ones who got out. Too young to be married, to start a family, to raise kids of their own…but out. The ones who melded their immaturity, unmet needs, and vague desires into a new life; who grew up together, too young to be adults though they couldn’t remember when they had been children, and grew into a codependency they would have to unlearn later. Here’s to the ones who grew into themselves, together. Individuals, finally. Loved, appreciated, for who they are, finally. Enough, finally.

Here’s to the ones who came after. Held to the “perfect” example of their older siblings without ever seeing what it had cost. Unwilling to give up their self-hood for the approval of parents who would never be satisfied with anything less than the impossibility of reliving their parents’ own childhoods, painlessly and happily. Here’s to the ones making their own lives, leaving home single—wait, that’s allowed???—working jobs and buying cars and breaking hearts and getting their hearts broken and being normal young adults. Here’s to the ones who have a choice.

Here’s to the ones who haven’t left. Who still struggle to see themselves as anything other than the potential for grandchildren, or the the promise of their parents’ comfort in old age. To the ones still treated like children in their twenties, thirties, forties. Who sometimes dare to wonder if they deserve better, and what they could do about it. Who are undertaking the grueling work of reparenting themselves while the old critical voices of authority are still a daily refrain. Here’s to those who haven’t found a safe place to vent the rage, but who have never stopped looking. Here’s to those who are really, really tired of being helpless and afraid.

Here’s to the ones who only need to hear their mother’s voice on the phone to feel impotent and stupid. Who become competitive in their eagerness to please every time they see their father. Who cringe inwardly every time they hear their own critical parent voice directed at their own children. Who sometimes wonder if they are capable of change, of doing better, of not fucking up their kids…of being happy and at peace. Here’s to the ones who fail, again and again, and again…and again…and still stand back up and keep trying. Here’s to those who are building a life that resembles them, singly, in pairs, while still at home; slowly, steadily, one small change at a time (and sometimes big changes all at once); knocking down and starting over, messy and confusing, and beautiful.

Here’s to us: finding our worth, our joy, our enoughness. Finding work that we love, and the right reasons to do what we don’t love when necessary. Learning how to follow our passions, to be passionate, to passionately be. Finding a divine that we can interact with; even, maybe, eventually, love. Growing into a version of ourselves that feels true; a version we can maybe, eventually, love.

Here’s to you. Here’s to me. Here’s to us.