#32 The Stories That Run Our Lives

Who’s responsible for my failures?

My relatives and friends saw me as an elite high achiever who went to Columbia University with many creative pursuits. What they didn’t know was underneath it all, I felt like a loser, and at every stage, I was always trying to self-sabotage any success I had.

I blamed it on my mom, her lack of ambition for her career.

My mom met my dad when she had just graduated from high school. She was working at the convenience store of the military camp where my dad served. She chose to work in a traditional market in Taiwan because she hated the idea of being surrounded by snobby college graduates in the corporate world, and I was asked to help out every weekend. The smell of trash and rotten food in the market, and the dark grey water mixed with blood of slaughtered pigs from the meat stand that stained my shoes have defined my identity. I’m a kid from the market. I was not meant to be in an Ivy League school. As I wrote in my memoir:

When I found myself on an elite campus and realized that, compared with the literal royalty and future political leaders from other countries who had come to Columbia, I was just a middle-class kid who had signed my life away to the bank, my impostor syndrome went into overdrive. Hanging out with my Taiwanese friends and hearing them casually discuss inheriting family conglomerates and holding multiple citizenships, all I could think about was how many years it would take to pay off my student loans. I swallowed my sense of not belonging like chunks of ice sliding into my stomach.

I kept imagining people’s first thoughts when they saw me: “Will talking to you make me seem uncool?” “Can you afford to party at the same restaurants and bars?”

I did everything I could to dress and armor myself like those glamorous people. Lacking the money for luxury labels, I went on frenzied hunts at mass-market brands like H&M. I would spend hours searching for clothes that looked upscale but would not bankrupt me, note their item numbers, and wait months until the big Christmas sales before buying them.

Perhaps my classmates never cared about my clothes, especially those in my sociology program. Some of them paid tuition through scholarships and even worked night shifts as security guards after class. Despite this, I felt that only by changing my wardrobe could I speak with confidence. Yet the more I dressed unlike myself, as someone who preferred flip-flops and cheap dresses from the Taiwanese night market, the more guilty I felt about pretending to be someone else.

I held on to these stories for over a decade, until my memoir forced me to face the truth.

The Big Revelation

As I continue to work on my memoir, going through countless rounds of editing, there are still some holes in my narrative. Sometimes my timeline doesn't match the reality I find in old pictures, and I even have multiple versions of important events in my head. I knew I couldn’t fill the holes without asking my parents. But I felt like throwing up just thinking about having these vulnerable conversations with my Asian family, who not only always default to avoiding emotions, but might even see my questions as an attack.

Maybe they will see my memoir as a scandalous act, disclosing disgraceful family secrets to the public. Maybe they will ask me not to publish it. Maybe they will disown me. But I also knew I wanted to publish an honest memoir, and I was tired of hiding. So I called them and asked them the things I needed to know

Me: So, what year did you meet Dad in the military camp?

(Mom and dad laughed out HARD)

Mom: What military camp are you talking about!? I met your dad at your uncle’s company while I was working there. Did you watch too much old-time TV drama or what?

Me: Wait, what!? You worked at that company with Dad? How long did you work there for?

Mom: Almost ten years. I started way before you were born.

MY MOM WORKED IN THE CORPORATE WORLD FOR TEN YEARS !?

Me: Then why did you later quit and work in the market?

Mom: Well, when you were in elementary school, one day we came home and asked what you did today. You said you walked all your friends home and roamed around the streets before you got back because you were bored being alone at home every day. I realized I needed a more flexible job so I can spend time with you. That’s why I quit.

At that moment, my worldview collapsed. The story I carefully wove about my life and who I was unraveled.

I’ve always known I had an expansive imagination, but writing a memoir has forced me to literally “fact check” myself, challenging the convenient lies I told myself over the years.

Through this, I’ve realized that no one else is responsible for my life; I am. As I write in the final chapter:

Through writing this book, I began to change my relationship with my mother. Before I picked up the pen, I honestly had no idea what I would write. Maybe it could be a funny “Fresh Off the Boat” type of memoir, or a focused exploration of the creative process. One thing felt certain: I could never write a book about my relationship with my mother. I lacked the courage even to think about it, let alone put it on the page. Yet I have never been able to dictate a book’s will or resist the pull of life itself. The very first draft, unsurprisingly, opened with our relationship falling apart after I studied abroad in Arizona. No matter how hard I tried to avoid writing about the experiences that caused us both so much pain, they kept resurfacing in different sections.

By the time I reached the chapter on becoming a mother myself, I had completely stopped running from the topic. Sometimes I wrote while quietly sobbing in a café; other times I sat on the floor at home and cried hard. After writing, I began to forgive my own rebellion, to see my mother’s love, and to understand that she was never required to take responsibility for my entire life. She had already done her best, giving me the greatest love she could out of her own life. I am the person who must take responsibility for my own. Because of this insight, I have become more willing to show my vulnerability to her. Our relationship might never again look like the close Taiwanese mother and daughter bond we had, yet we will keep loving each other in the way that fits who we are now.

Life Update

So much has happened since I last published my newsletter. It hasn’t all been great.

I was pregnant with my second baby. Had a miscarriage. Abandoned my memoir. Started another book. Finished the first draft. Realized it was shit and I was just avoiding grieving. Abandoned the second book. Went back to my memoir. Got pregnant again. Became a US citizen. Had another miscarriage. Moved to Thailand with

Paul Millerd

.

I am allowing myself to fully feel the spectrum of emotions. Laughing with my hilarious toddler and crying like a crazy MOFO when I need to. I’m trying my best to edit and get this book published this Fall, but also surrendering to what life has in store for me. I plan to write about my miscarriages in the future, because hiding them like it's shameful is doing no one good. Even sharing it here is a bit scary. So stay tuned.

My fav pic from our first nomadic stop - Koh Samui.

Ps. I had another Chinese substack 人生探索 if you are interested!

Also, I’ve been having fun sharing our nomadic journey and book process on my Instagram, like we visited the elephants behind my toddlers’ daycare after school (whaaaaat).

angieeecreates

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Until next time,

Angie