I have this weight on my shoulders. I see it all the time.
I see it on streets and neighbourhoods every afternoon.
I see it on the bus and on the train.
I see it eating lunch outside in the park and I pass it by on a walk with my dog.

A middle-aged Indian, walking along with their child.

Whether its smouldering hot or blistering cold, they’re always around. I can’t quite describe it, but every time I see them, I’m reminded of a time when things weren’t the best. I don’t just see another set of parents that happen to be Indian, I see my own. I see my mother and father, and everything they did for me. The tired look on their faces as they trudge along a footpath, holding a little brown hand belonging to their curious son or daughter. The flustered look as they hurry out of grocery stores and catch a bus with a handful of plastic bags filled with shopping. The stony look of exhaustion as they sit on a park bench watching their child eat an ice cream cone. Their story has been told and lived out by so many other migrant parents, and it seems to never get easier. I don’t know what it is, but for some reason it makes my stomach drop.

I am constantly reminded of a story that was more sad than it was inspiring.

I think I just feel guilty. Many 1st generation migrants would empathise. Our parents really struggled when they chose to settle down here. The world was working against them…and to some extent it still does. But they learnt to adapt. They worked hard.

So when I compare myself to them…to their courage, hard work and dedication to and for their families, I can’t help but feel like I’ve failed. The constant little reminders of how long it took them to assimilate and create a life, how the struggle shaped them into what they are now…it makes my efforts look dismal at best.

I know how harsh that may sound, many would probably say that their sacrifice was for me to make the mistakes I’ve made so far, something they didn’t have the luxury of doing. Others would say that I am to be ashamed …that I am a disgrace. Strong words that to them, might be accurate.

 

The truth is that when I see the children of those men and women who grow up in small houses in rough neighbourhoods, I see myself. I know the problems they face because I have faced them as well. That’s why I don’t think I can ever escape this sense of guilt. It’s a hole that leaves me wondering whether or not I did everything the best I could. Whether this story could’ve been different if I just chose a different path. Whether I’d be happier if I made a different decision or whether I made any right decisions at all.

There is this hole that gets left, this overwhelming sense of something to prove. The feeling of missing something that should’ve been there.

It haunts me just as it haunts everyone else. We all feel it… A lack of fulfilment, an absence of achievement. As a result, we are exposed to the idea that we are not living to our full potential…and that leads to the absolute worst thought anyone can have. Something that can kill anyone from the inside out.

That you are nothing more than a waste.

Nothing more than a malfunctioning, useless sack of meat and bone. No worthwhile contribution to society, no notable impact and no reason to keep on going. A waste of hard work from parents who shouldn’t have wasted their time.

The fact is that it takes a lot to realise that being 22 is too early to judge any of that. Our realities make it so much harder to move on from what shouldn’t be a thought in the first place. Regardless of what others may think, despite the success others may have at a young age, allowing yourself to think like that will never allow you to grow.

I spent so much time thinking about what I could’ve done to be better, that I forget how far I’ve come. Comparatively, it may not be a lot, but at least in this mindset, I can actually understand and be content in knowing that I am in fact trying. As much as it hurts to be constantly reminded of the sacrifice of others for my sake, it hurts, even more, to admit that living in that shadow will only leave me worse off.

The bottom line is that there is no escape…not from our past anyway. We will always be reminded of what we were and what we have become, whether that be good or bad.
I think that guilt that weighs me down is a constant reminder of how much more I could be doing, which can either be bad or good. But either way, it shouldn’t matter.

Understanding that we are all still young, that we haven’t even fully developed yet is why we should be excited about the future…not tormented by the past.

We all have demons, and we all have sad moments that we wish to walk away from, but deep down we know that without these things, we can never truly be strong.

Rather than wallow in our own self-pity, we should live by whatever sacrifice got us here. To not take anything for granted and not let the idea of ever being a waste poison our minds.