It still haunts me, that message. Plain text, no emoji, just a sterile demand: “I’d love for you to come to my graduation. But only if you can dress… normal. I don’t want to stand out.”Normal.
The word twisted a knife in my gut. Normal. As if I wasn’t normal. As if my very existence, the way I’ve always been, was some kind of freak show. For years, I’d dismissed her averted eyes, her hurried explanations to friends, the way she’d cringe if I hugged her too tight in public. She’s just a teenager, I’d told myself. She’s finding her own way. But this? This was a direct, unapologetic rejection of who I am.
She was ashamed of me.My heart ached. I pictured her, radiant and composed, ready to stride across that stage, a future shimmering before her. I’d worked my fingers raw, stretched every penny, sacrificed so much to get her there. And now, my reward was a quiet humiliation.
A distressed woman | Source: Midjourney
I’m an artist. Or, I was. Now, I mostly sell handmade jewelry and paint murals for local businesses. But for a long time, to make ends meet, I was a street performer. A living statue, sometimes, or a storyteller with puppets I made myself. My clothes were part of the act, part of my soul. Vibrant, flowing fabrics. Layers of mismatched textures. Hand-stitched embroidery. Beads and feathers and repurposed trinkets that chimed softly with every step. It wasn’t just clothing; it was my canvas, my identity, my way of breathing color into a world that often felt dull and gray. It was also how I earned enough money to keep a roof over our heads, to buy her expensive textbooks, to pay for the piano lessons she insisted on quitting after three weeks.
I remembered the day she was accepted into her dream university. She’d hugged me so tight, her face buried in my shoulder, whispering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” And I’d held her, my heart overflowing, thinking, This is worth everything. Every single sacrifice.
Now, the memory felt like ash.
I looked at my wardrobe, a riot of color and story. Each piece held a memory, a laugh, a struggle, a moment of triumph. To choose “normal” meant to strip all that away. To become a blank slate. To become invisible.
But it’s her day, I argued with myself, the thought a bitter medicine. Her big day. Don’t you want to be there? Don’t you want to see her shine?
A newlywed couple | Source: Unsplash
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her, “Every single stitch on these clothes represents a sacrifice I made for your future! Every bead, every feather, every patch is a testament to how hard I worked so you wouldn’t have to worry about money, so you could pursue your dreams!” But the words choked in my throat. I couldn’t ruin her day. I couldn’t be “that” mom, making it about me.
So I went shopping. It was torture. I walked past racks of beige, black, and navy. Structured blazers, sensible skirts, tailored trousers. Clothes that felt like costumes to me. Clothes that felt like a prison. I picked out a simple black dress, stiff and unyielding, and a pair of low, practical heels. No jewelry. No scarves. No color. My reflection in the changing room mirror was a stranger. A ghost. My vibrant spirit felt muted, suffocated under the weight of “normalcy.” I bought it anyway. The transaction felt like a betrayal of myself.
Graduation day arrived, crisp and bright. I braided my hair into a tight, neat bun, hiding the streaks of vibrant purple I usually let spill freely. I put on the black dress. It fit, technically. But it felt all wrong. Like wearing someone else’s skin. I looked at my hands, usually adorned with rings and painted nails, now bare and pale. I felt an emptiness, a hollowness in my chest where my usual spark resided.
Grayscale shot of a woman holding a phone | Source: Midjourney
Walking into the auditorium, I felt like an imposter. I saw other parents, dressed in various forms of celebratory attire, some formal, some casual, but all of them uniquely themselves. I searched for her in the sea of caps and gowns, my stomach churning with anxiety and a desperate longing for connection.
Then I saw her. She stood out, even among hundreds. Her posture perfect, her smile bright as she chatted with friends. When her eyes swept over the section where I was sitting, they paused. For a fraction of a second, a small, almost imperceptible nod. A flash of approval.
And in that moment, for that fleeting nod, I told myself it was worth it. I swallowed the bitterness, squared my shoulders, and focused on her. She walked across the stage, accepted her diploma, her name echoing through the hall. My daughter. My brilliant, beautiful daughter. A tear slipped down my cheek, a mixture of pride and a silent, private grief.
After the ceremony, the place erupted into a joyful chaos of hugging and congratulations. I navigated the crowd, my heart pounding, eager to finally embrace her, to tell her how proud I was. She spotted me, her eyes lingering on my “normal” attire for a moment longer than necessary. She smiled, a polite, almost formal smile, and pulled me into a quick, somewhat distant hug.
“You look nice,” she said, pulling away quickly. Her voice was flat, almost rehearsed. “Really nice.”
A phone on the bed flashing an incoming call | Source: Midjourney
Nice? I wanted to laugh. I look like a stranger.
“I’m so incredibly proud of you,” I whispered, holding onto her hand, trying to convey all the love and sacrifice that was bundled inside me. “You did it. Everything you worked for.”
She squeezed my hand, then pulled away, turning slightly towards a group of her friends who were calling her name. “Oh, before I forget,” she said, her voice dropping, almost a hurried aside. “The scholarship interview… it went really well. They loved my essay about growing up with two successful, corporate parents. Very inspiring, they said.”
My world stopped. The noise of the crowd, the joyous laughter, the celebratory music – it all faded to a muffled drone.
My brilliant, beautiful daughter. My daughter, who I put through school by selling my art on street corners, by playing a painted statue for hours in the biting wind, by haggling for commissions, by embracing every single colorful, eccentric part of myself that she found so shameful. My daughter, who just told me she’d fabricated an entire life story, a family history, to secure her future.
TWO SUCCESSFUL, CORPORATE PARENTS.
A woman seeing her phone | Source: Midjourney
NOT ONE ECCENTRIC ARTIST, STREET PERFORMER MOTHER WHO GAVE UP EVERYTHING FOR HER.
The black dress suddenly felt like a shroud. I hadn’t just stripped away my identity for her graduation. I had unwittingly become an accomplice to her lie. I had erased myself from her story, not just for a day, but for her entire future. And she expected me to be grateful for her approval.
My vision blurred. A cold, crushing weight settled in my chest. This wasn’t just about embarrassment. It was about erasure. Complete, total, deliberate erasure. I stood there, utterly “normal,” utterly invisible. And utterly broken.It still haunts me, that message. Plain text, no emoji, just a sterile demand: “I’d love for you to come to my graduation. But only if you can dress… normal. I don’t want to stand out.”
Normal.
The word twisted a knife in my gut. Normal. As if I wasn’t normal. As if my very existence, the way I’ve always been, was some kind of freak show. For years, I’d dismissed her averted eyes, her hurried explanations to friends, the way she’d cringe if I hugged her too tight in public. She’s just a teenager, I’d told myself. She’s finding her own way. But this? This was a direct, unapologetic rejection of who I am.
She was ashamed of me.
An anxious woman talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
My heart ached. I pictured her, radiant and composed, ready to stride across that stage, a future shimmering before her. I’d worked my fingers raw, stretched every penny, sacrificed so much to get her there. And now, my reward was a quiet humiliation.
I’m an artist. Or, I was. Now, I mostly sell handmade jewelry and paint murals for local businesses. But for a long time, to make ends meet, I was a street performer. A living statue, sometimes, or a storyteller with puppets I made myself. My clothes were part of the act, part of my soul. Vibrant, flowing fabrics. Layers of mismatched textures. Hand-stitched embroidery. Beads and feathers and repurposed trinkets that chimed softly with every step. It wasn’t just clothing; it was my canvas, my identity, my way of breathing color into a world that often felt dull and gray. It was also how I earned enough money to keep a roof over our heads, to buy her expensive textbooks, to pay for the piano lessons she insisted on quitting after three weeks.
I remembered the day she was accepted into her dream university. She’d hugged me so tight, her face buried in my shoulder, whispering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” And I’d held her, my heart overflowing, thinking, This is worth everything. Every single sacrifice.
Now, the memory felt like ash.
I looked at my wardrobe, a riot of color and story. Each piece held a memory, a laugh, a struggle, a moment of triumph. To choose “normal” meant to strip all that away. To become a blank slate. To become invisible.
But it’s her day, I argued with myself, the thought a bitter medicine. Her big day. Don’t you want to be there? Don’t you want to see her shine?
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her, “Every single stitch on these clothes represents a sacrifice I made for your future! Every bead, every feather, every patch is a testament to how hard I worked so you wouldn’t have to worry about money, so you could pursue your dreams!” But the words choked in my throat. I couldn’t ruin her day. I couldn’t be “that” mom, making it about me.
A woman holding a photograph of another lady | Source: Midjourney
So I went shopping. It was torture. I walked past racks of beige, black, and navy. Structured blazers, sensible skirts, tailored trousers. Clothes that felt like costumes to me. Clothes that felt like a prison. I picked out a simple black dress, stiff and unyielding, and a pair of low, practical heels. No jewelry. No scarves. No color. My reflection in the changing room mirror was a stranger. A ghost. My vibrant spirit felt muted, suffocated under the weight of “normalcy.” I bought it anyway. The transaction felt like a betrayal of myself.
Graduation day arrived, crisp and bright. I braided my hair into a tight, neat bun, hiding the streaks of vibrant purple I usually let spill freely. I put on the black dress. It fit, technically. But it felt all wrong. Like wearing someone else’s skin. I looked at my hands, usually adorned with rings and painted nails, now bare and pale. I felt an emptiness, a hollowness in my chest where my usual spark resided.
Walking into the auditorium, I felt like an imposter. I saw other parents, dressed in various forms of celebratory attire, some formal, some casual, but all of them uniquely themselves. I searched for her in the sea of caps and gowns, my stomach churning with anxiety and a desperate longing for connection.
Then I saw her. She stood out, even among hundreds. Her posture perfect, her smile bright as she chatted with friends. When her eyes swept over the section where I was sitting, they paused. For a fraction of a second, a small, almost imperceptible nod. A flash of approval.
And in that moment, for that fleeting nod, I told myself it was worth it. I swallowed the bitterness, squared my shoulders, and focused on her. She walked across the stage, accepted her diploma, her name echoing through the hall. My daughter. My brilliant, beautiful daughter. A tear slipped down my cheek, a mixture of pride and a silent, private grief.
A frustated woman | Source: Pexels
After the ceremony, the place erupted into a joyful chaos of hugging and congratulations. I navigated the crowd, my heart pounding, eager to finally embrace her, to tell her how proud I was. She spotted me, her eyes lingering on my “normal” attire for a moment longer than necessary. She smiled, a polite, almost formal smile, and pulled me into a quick, somewhat distant hug.
“You look nice,” she said, pulling away quickly. Her voice was flat, almost rehearsed. “Really nice.”
Nice? I wanted to laugh. I look like a stranger.
“I’m so incredibly proud of you,” I whispered, holding onto her hand, trying to convey all the love and sacrifice that was bundled inside me. “You did it. Everything you worked for.”
She squeezed my hand, then pulled away, turning slightly towards a group of her friends who were calling her name. “Oh, before I forget,” she said, her voice dropping, almost a hurried aside. “The scholarship interview… it went really well. They loved my essay about growing up with two successful, corporate parents. Very inspiring, they said.”
My world stopped. The noise of the crowd, the joyous laughter, the celebratory music – it all faded to a muffled drone.
My brilliant, beautiful daughter. My daughter, who I put through school by selling my art on street corners, by playing a painted statue for hours in the biting wind, by haggling for commissions, by embracing every single colorful, eccentric part of myself that she found so shameful. My daughter, who just told me she’d fabricated an entire life story, a family history, to secure her future.
TWO SUCCESSFUL, CORPORATE PARENTS.
A woman lost in deep thought | Source: Midjourney
NOT ONE ECCENTRIC ARTIST, STREET PERFORMER MOTHER WHO GAVE UP EVERYTHING FOR HER.
The black dress suddenly felt like a shroud. I hadn’t just stripped away my identity for her graduation. I had unwittingly become an accomplice to her lie. I had erased myself from her story, not just for a day, but for her entire future. And she expected me to be grateful for her approval.
My vision blurred. A cold, crushing weight settled in my chest. This wasn’t just about embarrassment. It was about erasure. Complete, total, deliberate erasure. I stood there, utterly “normal,” utterly invisible. And utterly broken.
