I hate my mom. Not in the way a teenager hates curfew or a test. I hate her in the way a gardener hates frost: because it kills the fragile seedlings she nurtured so obsessively, because it threatens something precious. I hate her for caring too much. So much that I can feel the toll on her shoulders, see the deepening lines etched into her face, the slow decline of her laughter into exhaustion. I hate her for making my life a responsibility that she carries like a boulder, I hate that I can't take it from her. When I was in sixth grade, we planted our first garden together. Rows of tomato so red they almost glowed, peppers that curled like question marks, a zucchini that grew so large it toppled under its own weight. The garden was so healthy. Each weekend morning, with me half asleep, we watered, pruned, and talked as her hands trembled slightly untangling my nappy hair, sometimes quietly, sometimes arguing about my grades or about how I don’t spend enough time with her because of my crazy schedule. The garden became our world. A place where I felt seen, and she felt needed. A world that thrives because of our shared effort. High school came. Hard classes, competitions, student government, many responsibilities, all the pressures  that were mine alone somehow became hers, too. I could see it in her eyes, the worry that kept her awake, the hands that rambled when she spoke to my teachers at parent teacher conferences, the night she skipped sleep to make sure I didn't fall behind. The garden died. I didn't even notice it at first. Not because I didn't care, but because I couldn't breathe under the weight of her care and my own obligations. I hate my mom because her love is heavy. It burns reality in ways I didn't understand until I watched her health start to fray. She schedules herself around my schedule, even though she works nightshift, giving up her sleep in the morning, most of the time sacrificing herself to make my world livable. And I hate that I can't let her rest. I hate that she worries about me so ferociously that I feel guilty for existing. And yet, I love her fiercely. I love her for teaching me that care can be relentless and beautiful, for showing me the strength that takes to prioritize someone else's life above your own, for making me want to live a life worthy of her devotion. I love her because the garden that died in the backyard wasn't just plants, but it was our effort, patience, and our shared heartbeat. The garden is not gone, it's only waiting. Waiting for us to have time again, waiting for us to water it with less stress, waiting for life to slow down enough to care again. I don't want her to carry my life on her shoulders. But the truth is, her love has shaped mine. It has taught me how to care, how to lead, and how to notice the little small details, like the band of a tomato leaf, the tremor in a hand, and the unspoken exhaustion behind her smile. And as I grow, I want to honor her care, not by just resenting it, not by ignoring it, but by living a life that allows her to finally rest, by nurturing the garden we began together, for her, for me, and for the life she’s too tired to enjoy. I hate my mom. And yet, in every heartbeat, I am her reflection.

I hate my mom. Not in the way a teenager hates curfew or a test. I hate her in the way a gardener hates frost: because it kills the fragile seedlings she nurtured so obsessively, because it threatens something precious. I hate her for caring too much. So much that I can feel the toll on her shoulders, see the deepening lines etched into her face, the slow decline of her laughter into exhaustion. I hate her for making my life a responsibility that she carries like a boulder, I hate that I can't take it from her. When I was in sixth grade, we planted our first garden together. Rows of tomato so red they almost glowed, peppers that curled like question marks, a zucchini that grew so large it toppled under its own weight. The garden was so healthy. Each weekend morning, with me half asleep, we watered, pruned, and talked as her hands trembled slightly untangling my nappy hair, sometimes quietly, sometimes arguing about my grades or about how I don’t spend enough time with her because of my crazy schedule. The garden became our world. A place where I felt seen, and she felt needed. A world that thrives because of our shared effort. High school came. Hard classes, competitions, student government, many responsibilities, all the pressures  that were mine alone somehow became hers, too. I could see it in her eyes, the worry that kept her awake, the hands that rambled when she spoke to my teachers at parent teacher conferences, the night she skipped sleep to make sure I didn't fall behind. The garden died. I didn't even notice it at first. Not because I didn't care, but because I couldn't breathe under the weight of her care and my own obligations. I hate my mom because her love is heavy. It burns reality in ways I didn't understand until I watched her health start to fray. She schedules herself around my schedule, even though she works nightshift, giving up her sleep in the morning, most of the time sacrificing herself to make my world livable. And I hate that I can't let her rest. I hate that she worries about me so ferociously that I feel guilty for existing. And yet, I love her fiercely. I love her for teaching me that care can be relentless and beautiful, for showing me the strength that takes to prioritize someone else's life above your own, for making me want to live a life worthy of her devotion. I love her because the garden that died in the backyard wasn't just plants, but it was our effort, patience, and our shared heartbeat. The garden is not gone, it's only waiting. Waiting for us to have time again, waiting for us to water it with less stress, waiting for life to slow down enough to care again. I don't want her to carry my life on her shoulders. But the truth is, her love has shaped mine. It has taught me how to care, how to lead, and how to notice the little small details, like the band of a tomato leaf, the tremor in a hand, and the unspoken exhaustion behind her smile. And as I grow, I want to honor her care, not by just resenting it, not by ignoring it, but by living a life that allows her to finally rest, by nurturing the garden we began together, for her, for me, and for the life she’s too tired to enjoy. I hate my mom. And yet, in every heartbeat, I am her reflection.

I hate my mom. Not in the way a teenager hates curfew or a test. I hate her in the way a gardener hates frost: because it kills the fragile seedlings she nurtured so obsessively, because it threatens something precious. I hate her for caring too much. So much that I can feel the toll on her shoulders, see the deepening lines etched into her face, the slow decline of her laughter into exhaustion. I hate her for making my life a responsibility that she carries like a boulder, I hate that I can't take it from her. When I was in sixth grade, we planted our first garden together. Rows of tomato so red they almost glowed, peppers that curled like question marks, a zucchini that grew so large it toppled under its own weight. The garden was so healthy. Each weekend morning, with me half asleep, we watered, pruned, and talked as her hands trembled slightly untangling my nappy hair, sometimes quietly, sometimes arguing about my grades or about how I don’t spend enough time with her because of my crazy schedule. The garden became our world. A place where I felt seen, and she felt needed. A world that thrives because of our shared effort. High school came. Hard classes, competitions, student government, many responsibilities, all the pressures  that were mine alone somehow became hers, too. I could see it in her eyes, the worry that kept her awake, the hands that rambled when she spoke to my teachers at parent teacher conferences, the night she skipped sleep to make sure I didn't fall behind. The garden died. I didn't even notice it at first. Not because I didn't care, but because I couldn't breathe under the weight of her care and my own obligations. I hate my mom because her love is heavy. It burns reality in ways I didn't understand until I watched her health start to fray. She schedules herself around my schedule, even though she works nightshift, giving up her sleep in the morning, most of the time sacrificing herself to make my world livable. And I hate that I can't let her rest. I hate that she worries about me so ferociously that I feel guilty for existing. And yet, I love her fiercely. I love her for teaching me that care can be relentless and beautiful, for showing me the strength that takes to prioritize someone else's life above your own, for making me want to live a life worthy of her devotion. I love her because the garden that died in the backyard wasn't just plants, but it was our effort, patience, and our shared heartbeat. The garden is not gone, it's only waiting. Waiting for us to have time again, waiting for us to water it with less stress, waiting for life to slow down enough to care again. I don't want her to carry my life on her shoulders. But the truth is, her love has shaped mine. It has taught me how to care, how to lead, and how to notice the little small details, like the band of a tomato leaf, the tremor in a hand, and the unspoken exhaustion behind her smile. And as I grow, I want to honor her care, not by just resenting it, not by ignoring it, but by living a life that allows her to finally rest, by nurturing the garden we began together, for her, for me, and for the life she’s too tired to enjoy. I hate my mom. And yet, in every heartbeat, I am her reflection.

I hate my mom. Not in the way a teenager hates curfew or a test. I hate her in the way a gardener hates frost: because it kills the fragile seedlings she nurtured so obsessively, because it threatens something precious. I hate her for caring too much. So much that I can feel the toll on her shoulders, see the deepening lines etched into her face, the slow decline of her laughter into exhaustion. I hate her for making my life a responsibility that she carries like a boulder, I hate that I can't take it from her. When I was in sixth grade, we planted our first garden together. Rows of tomato so red they almost glowed, peppers that curled like question marks, a zucchini that grew so large it toppled under its own weight. The garden was so healthy. Each weekend morning, with me half asleep, we watered, pruned, and talked as her hands trembled slightly untangling my nappy hair, sometimes quietly, sometimes arguing about my grades or about how I don’t spend enough time with her because of my crazy schedule. The garden became our world. A place where I felt seen, and she felt needed. A world that thrives because of our shared effort. High school came. Hard classes, competitions, student government, many responsibilities, all the pressures  that were mine alone somehow became hers, too. I could see it in her eyes, the worry that kept her awake, the hands that rambled when she spoke to my teachers at parent teacher conferences, the night she skipped sleep to make sure I didn't fall behind. The garden died. I didn't even notice it at first. Not because I didn't care, but because I couldn't breathe under the weight of her care and my own obligations. I hate my mom because her love is heavy. It burns reality in ways I didn't understand until I watched her health start to fray. She schedules herself around my schedule, even though she works nightshift, giving up her sleep in the morning, most of the time sacrificing herself to make my world livable. And I hate that I can't let her rest. I hate that she worries about me so ferociously that I feel guilty for existing. And yet, I love her fiercely. I love her for teaching me that care can be relentless and beautiful, for showing me the strength that takes to prioritize someone else's life above your own, for making me want to live a life worthy of her devotion. I love her because the garden that died in the backyard wasn't just plants, but it was our effort, patience, and our shared heartbeat. The garden is not gone, it's only waiting. Waiting for us to have time again, waiting for us to water it with less stress, waiting for life to slow down enough to care again. I don't want her to carry my life on her shoulders. But the truth is, her love has shaped mine. It has taught me how to care, how to lead, and how to notice the little small details, like the band of a tomato leaf, the tremor in a hand, and the unspoken exhaustion behind her smile. And as I grow, I want to honor her care, not by just resenting it, not by ignoring it, but by living a life that allows her to finally rest, by nurturing the garden we began together, for her, for me, and for the life she’s too tired to enjoy. I hate my mom. And yet, in every heartbeat, I am her reflection.