It was two days before Christmas in Los Angeles, California. A tepid 68 degrees with a sprinkle of rain. As is tradition, my flight home was in 5 hours, I still hadn't packed, and had two more gifts to buy. Doesn’t sound like too much to handle, but when you’re as hungover as I was, everything is hard.
My partner accompanied me to Little Tokyo to knock the gift-giving part off my list. My cousin still loves all things cute, a trait we both carried into adulthood. Instead of beelining to the blind box shop, I had to do a little window shopping first. Maybe the kitchenware store had something I could stuff into my carry-on. Korean Skin care products, anyone? Oooo, what's this new noodle truck?
I could attribute my lack of focus to my ADHD and to the sensory overload of this pint-sized Tokyo.
It wasn't that.
Every year, the same feeling sets in. It's a wave of fear propelling a current of anxiety that always stems from the same thing: spending time with my mom.
I should note: my mom is not a monster. If anything, she's the opposite. Now retired, she spends her time traveling, going to church, and checking in with family. She was a self-made career woman her entire life, first with a decade-and-a-half run as a glamorous stewardess for Philippine Airlines. Then she transitioned into nursing, holding sought-after positions like Director of Nursing and Case Manager at San Francisco's most reputable hospitals. She put herself through college, put me through college, and is now doing her best to reap the rewards of working so hard for so long.
Having a mom who placed this much emphasis on career made things difficult, to say the least, for someone like me who had always been artistically inclined. I remember sitting together at a café in Paris, watching her concern mount as she clumsily asked about my life in Los Angeles. The interrogation quickly turned into a lecture. Before I even realized what was happening, a brutally honest sentence flew out of my mouth.
"Mom, I'm never going to be the version of me you want me to be. What makes you happy isn't what makes me happy."
I still can't figure out whether the look that flashed across her face was momentary understanding or horror.
I've gotten used to sharing very little with my mom, mostly because I'm afraid of being judged. I spent the majority of my adulthood performing in bands with varying degrees of success. And by “varying degrees of success,” I mean mostly very little. I've invited her to a few shows as a way to unabashedly let her into my world. The experiences were... not very Gilmore Girls. She usually sang the praises of one of the other acts or stayed silent altogether. I don't know which I preferred.
But hey. She showed up. That was her way of showing support.
A few weeks before Christmas, I got some good news. Career good news. As I slowly untethered myself from my beloved identity as an on-stage baddie bass player, my work for the nonprofit Totem.org was starting to make an impact. Long story short, I got promoted! My unconventionally experimental nature was being praised instead of shunned. I was surprised, floored, elated, confused. And yes, I was so happy I cried.
I knew this was something my mom would understand, so I texted her. Not because I needed validation, but because I wanted her to be proud.
Her response?
"Good! Keep working hard so you can show them that you can do better."
I miraculously boarded my flight on time. My cousin BJ, who voluntarily functions as a buffer between the awkwardness of this dynamic duo, was busy that day, so I took a train from the airport to her house. The pain of sitting in bumper-to-bumper Bay Area traffic pales in comparison to the pain of sitting in uncomfortable silence for an hour and a half.
That night, we did what we did best: eat. Cracking through leg after leg of salt-and-pepper crab seemed to bring out the best in us. We gossiped about family members, coveted the orders of neighboring diners, and laughed about how much food two women were able to put down. Dare I say it? I was having fun.
My dread of staying an entire week instead of just a weekend started to fade away.
Christmas Eve is always spent with the extended family: both cousins I mentioned and their parents. I was relieved to be back at the same Japanese restaurant we'd eaten at for the past eight years. After the 2024 buffet incident, we returned to our tried-and-true spot without hesitation.
"Where's Jacky?" I asked.
"Waiting for gifts to arrive. She's not gonna make dinner," my uncle replied, doing his best to mask his disappointment.
Without missing a beat, my aunt and I got to work flagging down our waiter. We needed appetizers and drinks immediately. A little anesthesia goes a long way during the holidays.
After a couple rounds of sake and spider rolls, everyone seemed to be in good spirits again. We were actually sharing stories about our lives. I had no idea my uncle was months away from moving back to the Philippines, or that my aunt was doing seasonal work for the USPS.
She detailed the gig. Even though it was temporary, they offered benefits, and more importantly, she enjoyed the work. How, I don't know. Her shifts started at an ungodly hour.
Then I heard my mom say, as if she were imparting wisdom from an oracle hidden inside her crab roll, “See? You should get a job like that.”
The words stunned me. I could feel time slowing down as my brain flooded with thoughts like:
Are you fucking kidding me?
Did I imagine the part where I told you about my promotion?
There’s no way that could’ve been on purpose.
In what world is a seasonal job at the post office better than what I’m doing now? (No offense, Auntie.)
Is anything I do ever going to be good enough?
BJ and I came up with this move we call "twirl."
Our cousin Claire was born with a disability that kept her cognitive development around the age of two. She’s probably in her mid-twenties now.
A few years back, we attended her sister's resort wedding, where thunder provided the soundtrack for award-worthy bridezilla moments and family drama galore. BJ and I looked to the dance floor and watched Claire. She was just twirling.
After a few minutes of observing her, BJ said, “Damn. What if there’s nothing wrong with Claire? What if she’s actually smarter than us and realized that if she doesn’t want to deal with our family’s bullshit, she can just twirl?”
So instead of saying anything in response to my mom's comment, I twirled.
The next day was Christmas. I can't remember much besides loads of family and lechon. As much as I tried twirling, I couldn't shake her comment. I was also two days into nicotine withdrawal because I'm a grown-ass woman who still can't admit to her mom that she's been smoking cigarettes for years.
I'm trying to quit... I swear.
The nicotine monster was in full Godzilla mode by the time we got back to my mom's house that evening. So I did what I do best when I'm home and jonesing: fabricate an excuse that keeps me out of the house long enough for my mom to be asleep by the time I get back reeking of smoke.
I “met my friend” at a bar down the way. As I took my first drag in days and languished in an actual moment of privacy, I called my partner. I needed to hear the voice of someone from home who understood me. I didn’t realize how much I missed him — and how much I missed being in LA — until that very moment.
After that, I treated myself to a few drinks while killing time and catching up with a few more Christmas orphans. I’d only been home for two days, but it felt like I hadn’t been able to be myself in years.
Things spiraled when I got back to my mom's. I popped open a bottle of bubbly and drank it by myself. After that, I booked a flight home set to take off in four hours. Then I quietly packed my bag, called a car, and waited for it outside.
I knew what I was doing would hurt her, but in that moment I was too exhausted, too tired of hurting myself to care. I wish I could've just twirled. It was only five more days, after all.
But I’ve gotten to the point where pretending this much feels impossible.
I had to escape.
I told my cousin why I left. We don’t judge each other. He even blamed my swift exit on himself, convinced that if he’d been there, I wouldn’t have felt so trapped.
My mom’s anger and concern were evident in the texts she sent that morning, all of which hit my phone the second I landed in LA.
Where are you?
Is something going on?
You should be home with family when you're in trouble!
Shielded by distance and a phone screen, I replied truthfully for the first time since Paris.
I told her I wasn’t in trouble. I told her I left because I don’t feel like myself when I’m around her. That LA feels like home because it’s where I’m surrounded by people I can actually be myself around.
I even told her how much her comment during dinner affected me. That even if it wasn’t intentional, what she said made me feel like everything I’d worked so hard for wasn’t enough.
It’s been about five months now. She still hasn’t responded.
Sometimes I feel guilty for failing to fix things. Even guiltier that I’m thriving with the distance I created. I was surprised by how deeply her opinion still affects me. Not because I need to please her, but because maybe deep down, I'm still not pleased with myself.
I don’t know how long it’s going to take for me to fully accept me as I am. All I know is that no matter how painful the distance feels, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make until being around her no longer feels like abandoning myself.