I don't even know how to start this.
I've been staring at this screen for a long time because even writing this feels like I'm doing something wrong.
I'm supposed to be moving out on Sunday the 13th.
That gives me about two weeks.
And I'm writing this with tears literally streaming down my face because I don't know if I'm making the right decision.
I don't know if I'm ready.
I don't know if I'm strong enough.
And I don't know if I'm making another mistake.
I'm 26, almost 27. I'm pregnant. I've been with my boyfriend for about six months. He has his own house and lives right beside his parents. He has been telling me that I should move in with him; because he and his parents knows about my story more than anyone
And I think I'm finally at the point where I NEED to leave my parents' house.
But leaving is probably one of the scariest things I've ever had to do.
Because I have lived with my parents since I was seven years old.
I immigrated here from a third-world country when I was seven.
My parents are immigrants.
They came here and worked hard and sacrificed everything they could to give us a better life.
And I want to say this before anybody jumps to conclusions:
I don't hate my parents.
I don't think my parents are evil.
I don't think they woke up every morning trying to ruin my childhood.
They were immigrants trying to survive.
They didn't have well-paying jobs.
We weren't poor. We lived in a nice neighborhood. We were middle class. We had food, clothes, a home, cars, everything we needed.
I learned very early to be grateful for what I had.
But I also learned very early that being grateful didn't mean I was allowed to want anything else.
My siblings are 12 and 14 years younger than me.
So when I was little, I became a caretaker.
I would go to school and then pick them up from daycare. I only knew 3 routes: home - school - daycare - home
I'd come home and take care of them.
Then I'd do my homework.
When they got older and started school, I helped them with their homework.
I don't blame my parents for needing help.
They were working.
They were immigrants.
They were trying to survive.
But sometimes I ask myself:
What kind of childhood did I actually have?
Because I was still a little girl.
I wanted friends.
I wanted sleepovers.
I wanted to go to the park.
I wanted to go to birthday parties.
I wanted somebody to call me and ask me to hang out.
And I didn't have that.
I remember other kids saying, “I'm having a birthday party. Are you coming?”
And I would say I couldn't because I had after-school activities.
I didn't have after-school activities.
I was going home.
I was reading.
Doing extra math.
Studying.
Being productive.
Being the daughter I was supposed to be.
I remember being told things like:
“Why do you need friends?”
“What are they going to do for you in the future?”
And eventually, I stopped asking.
I started resenting my parents.
I started resenting the way I lived.
I saw other kids having childhoods and I wanted that so badly.
But I didn't say anything.
Because whenever I tried to express how I felt, I was called ungrateful.
I got yelled at.
I got punished.
So I learned to shut up.
I learned that telling the truth wasn't necessarily safe.
And then high school happened.
And I started sneaking out.
One day I left school property to go to a friend's house.
Somehow my parents found out.
I don't know if they were literally driving around looking for me or what, but they knew.
When I got home, I was beaten.
I'm not talking about getting grounded.
I'm not talking about getting a spanking.
I was beaten with a belt.
For days, I went to school wearing long sleeves because I was trying to hide my scars.
My skin was burning.
My body hurt.
And the messed-up part is that I thought it was normal.
I thought that's what happened when you were a bad kid.
I thought being terrified of your parents was normal.
I thought walking on eggshells was normal.
I made escape plans….So many escape plans.
I thought about running away.
I thought about leaving.
I thought about where I would go.
But I never actually did it.
I think as I got older, I realized my parents were raised that way too.
They were treated that way.
And then they treated me that way.
And somehow that made it easier to forgive them.
But it didn't erase what happened.
Then I went to college.
Of course, there were expectations.
I needed to become a doctor.
Or a lawyer.
Or something impressive because they had to be proud and compare me to my aunts saying “my daughter is a doctor…my son’s a lawyer”….yup it was a competition. Who had the most successful kid
So I went into nursing.
I applied to schools far away.
Three hours away.
Five hours away.
Anywhere that could give me some freedom.
But I didn't have the grades to get into the schools I wanted.
So I ended up going to a college that was literally a seven-minute drive from my parents' house.
They bought me a car.
I went to school.
At first I hated nursing.
Then I started loving it.
I worked my ass off.
I graduated at the top of my class.
I started working in the ER.
And finally, I had a little bit of freedom.
But I still didn't feel safe telling my parents about my personal life.
I didn't feel comfortable saying:
“I like this guy.”
“I met someone.”
“I want to go on a date.”
So I started lying.
I would tell my parents I was working an eight-hour shift.
Sometimes I'd say I was working 12 hours.
Meanwhile, I'd be sitting in a random parking lot.
Sometimes I'd go to a movie.
Sometimes I'd go on a date.
Sometimes I'd literally sit in my work parking lot with my laptop and watch a movie because I just didn't want to go home.
And when I think about that now, it breaks my heart.
Because home is supposed to be the safe place.
But for me, sometimes my car in a random parking lot was safer than my own home.
I wasn't doing anything bad.
I was literally hiding from home.
At the time I wasn't thinking, “This is trauma.”
I was thinking:
I need somewhere I can breathe.
Then when I was about 20, I went to medical school in Grenada.
And that was the first real taste of freedom I had ever had.
I loved it.
I did so well.
Then I got the opportunity to come to Chicago for rotations.
And I remember thinking:
I don't want to go home.
I lived in River North.
I had my own apartment.
My own life.
My own schedule.
I could walk outside whenever I wanted.
I could see whoever I wanted.
I could live.
And I did.
I still lied to my parents.
I'd tell them I was busy.
Meanwhile, I was living my life to the fullest.
I had a partner I'd been talking to for years.
And his family took me in like I had always been theirs.
I got to meet his siblings.
I got to experience what it felt like to be welcomed into a family.
And I loved it.
I think deep down, that was something I had been craving my entire life.
We eventually got married.
And I didn't tell my parents.
I know how insane that sounds.
I know people are going to read that and immediately think, “Huge red flag.”
What kind of daughter gets married and doesn't tell her parents?
But my parents barely knew him.
They had FaceTimed him.
They knew I was seeing someone.
They didn't know he lived with me.
They didn't know we got married.
They didn't know the life I had built.
And then that marriage became abusive.
Extremely abusive.
I was eventually left with absolutely nothing.
It was the messiest divorce imaginable.
And at one point, my ex-husband put me in a coma.
The hospital called my parents.
And that's when they found out how serious everything had become.
I was in a foreign country.
I didn't know anybody.
I was isolated.
My husband was the breadwinner.
He was an orthopedic surgeon.
I was still trying to figure out my own career.
And I think one of the reasons I stayed in that relationship was because I had nowhere to go.
Before the worst of the abuse happened, my parents had found out I was married.
They were devastated.
They stopped speaking to me.
I couldn't speak to my sisters.
They wouldn't answer my calls.
And I remember thinking:
How the fuck am I supposed to tell my mom that my husband is beating me when I hid the marriage from her in the first place?
I was embarrassed.
I was ashamed.
I was terrified.
So I stayed.
I stayed because I didn't have anywhere else to go.
Eventually, after I ended up in a coma, my parents came.
They took me back.
And I will always acknowledge that.
They came for me.
They brought me home.
The divorce was finalized.
And I came back to Canada.
Back under my parents' roof.
And that was complicated.
Because I was grateful.
But I also felt like I was being reminded that I had made the wrong choices.
I'd hear things like:
“If you had communicated with us, we would've seen the signs.”
“We would've warned you.”
And I swallowed it.
I didn't argue.
I didn't fight.
I just tried to move forward.
I got a job about two weeks after coming home.
I was making decent money.
But it never felt like enough.
My mom would tell me:
“You could be making more.”
“You need to make more.”
“You should be doing more.”
And because I hadn't finished my medical degree, I had to fall back on the nursing diploma I had gotten years earlier.
And I felt like a failure.
I felt like I wasn't enough.
So I kept changing jobs.
Trying to find something better.
Trying to make more.
Trying to prove that I wasn't wasting my life.
And then I met my current boyfriend.
And honestly, I feel like he was a godsend.
He has been one of the most caring and gentle person I've ever met.
I started becoming a little more comfortable telling my parents about dating.
I'd tell them about a first date.
A second date.
I'd tell them about him.
But then the comments started.
Things like:
“You're out spreading your legs, but you won't find a job.”
“You're dating, but you're not going back to school.”
And I'm 27.
Hearing that from your mother at 27 years old hits differently. Plus I had a job, I pay to get my nursing license reinstated…I paid my car loan, my insurance, my dogs surgery ….but yup “I won’t find a job because I was out spreading my legs”
So I started hiding things again.
I'd tell them I was going to work.
But I'd actually be with him.
And things got serious.
Really serious.
I fell in love.
I love him.
I love his family.
We got a puppy.
And then we found out we're pregnant.
We're still very early.
And my parents don't even know.
For my Black immigrant parents, having a 27-year-old daughter who is pregnant by a man she's been dating for six months, whom they barely know, is basically the ultimate fucking scandal.
And I haven't told them because I already know what that conversation is going to look like.
And honestly?
I'm terrified.
Because things at home have become increasingly hostile.
Recently, I worked an extremely long shift.
They asked me to stay longer because they were short-staffed and needed help with the morning rush.
And I actually communicated with my parents.
I made a group chat with my mom and dad.
I told them:
“I'm working a long shift. They asked me to stay and help with the morning rush. I'm probably going to be here another couple of hours.”
I communicated.
I told them where I was.
I told them what was happening.
And when I finally came home, my dad said:
“Give me the house keys.”
I was confused.
I asked why.
And he said:
“You want to spend 24 hours out of the house? You're not going to do that under my roof.”
I was working.
I wasn't partying.
I wasn't disappearing.
I wasn't doing anything dangerous.
I was literally working.
And suddenly, I didn't have my house key.
That scared the shit out of me.
Because I have shifts that can end around 11 PM.
My parents go to bed early.
And I remember thinking:
What the hell am I going to do if I can't get into my own home after work?
I told my boyfriend.
And at first, I don't think he believed me.
Not because he thought I was lying.
I think he genuinely couldn't comprehend it.
He talked to his parents.
And they were absolutely baffled.
They basically said:
“You need to move out.”
And now I'm sitting here realizing that they're probably right.
I've been under an insane amount of stress.
I'm pregnant.
My anxiety is through the roof.
I've been going to the hospital because of how much stress I'm under.
And I keep thinking about my baby.
I don't want my baby growing inside of me while I'm constantly terrified.
I don't want to spend this pregnancy hiding upstairs in my bedroom.
I don't want to pretend I'm working just so I can sit in my car somewhere.
I don't want to walk around my own house feeling like I'm walking on eggshells.
And here's the thing that really fucks with my head:
My parents don't even know I'm pregnant yet.
This is them now.
Imagine what happens when I tell them I'm pregnant.
Imagine what happens when I tell them I'm moving out.
Imagine what happens when I tell them I'm moving in with the man I've been seeing for six months.
But here's where my fear comes in.
My boyfriend has his own house.
He lives right beside his parents.
He has told me repeatedly that I can move in.
His parents know what is happening.
They have been incredibly supportive.
They've basically said:
“Come here.”
And part of me desperately wants to.
But another part of me is absolutely terrified.
Because I've trusted a man before.
And that man nearly killed me.
So how do I trust another man?
How do I move into a man's house after knowing him for six months?
How do I make him my safety net?
What happens if we break up?
What happens if he changes?
What happens if he eventually gets tired of me?
What happens if I become a burden?
What happens if one day he looks at me and thinks:
“I didn't sign up for all of this.”
I don't want to be anybody's charity case.
I don't want him to feel like he rescued me.
I don't want to depend on another man.
I want to be independent.
But I'm also terrified that if I don't leave now, I'm going to keep repeating the exact same cycle I've been in my entire life.
And that's what scares me.
Because I know what dependency can look like.
I've already lived it.
I lived it in my marriage.
And I don't want to go from being controlled by my parents to being dependent on my boyfriend.
But I also don't know if refusing help because I'm afraid of dependence is actually independence.
Maybe independence sometimes looks like accepting help while you rebuild yourself.
I don't know.
And then tonight something happened that completely broke me.
My mom gets up every morning before work.
She goes into each of her daughters' rooms.
Whether they're sleeping or awake.
And she softly says goodbye.
Just a quiet:
“Bye.”
Every morning.
And this morning, I wasn't sleeping.
I heard her.
She went into my sisters' rooms.
She said goodbye.
And I just laid there listening.
And I started crying.
Because after everything I've written here...
After the beatings.
The scars.
The yelling.
The fear.
The criticism.
The walking on eggshells.
The childhood I didn't get.
The marriage I hid.
The abuse.
The coma.
The divorce.
The shame.
The years of lying.
The fear.
The pregnancy.
The house keys.
All of it...
she is still my mother.
And I'm still her daughter.
And I love her.
That's the part people don't understand.
I can be hurt by my parents and still love them.
I can know that some of what happened to me was wrong and still understand why they became the people they are.
I can be angry and grateful at the same time.
I can want to leave and still cry when my mother says goodbye to my sisters.
I can know I need my own life and still desperately want my mother's approval.
And maybe that's why leaving feels so fucking impossible.
People are going to tell me:
“Just move out.”
“You're 27.”
“You're an adult.”
“You're pregnant.”
“Just go.”
Logically, I understand that.
But emotionally?
I'm still that seven-year-old girl who came to this country with her parents.
I'm still the girl who wanted her mother's approval.
I'm still the girl who learned that love and fear could exist in the same house.
I'm still the girl who learned to lie because telling the truth didn't always feel safe.
I'm still the girl who sat alone in a parking lot because being in her own home felt worse.
I'm still the woman who survived an abusive marriage.
And now I'm pregnant.
And I'm being asked to trust myself enough to build a completely new life.
I am supposed to leave on Sunday the 13th.
I have roughly two weeks.
And I'm scared.
I'm scared of leaving.
I'm scared of staying.
I'm scared of depending on my boyfriend.
I'm scared he'll leave.
I'm scared I'll become a burden.
I'm scared I'll make another mistake.
I'm scared I'll regret it.
I'm scared my parents will hate me.
I'm scared they'll say I abandoned them.
I'm scared they'll say I chose a man over my family.
I'm scared they'll say I was ungrateful.
I'm scared of everything.
But somewhere underneath all of that fear, there is a tiny part of me that keeps saying:
Maybe this is finally my chance.
Maybe leaving doesn't mean I don't love my parents.
Maybe leaving doesn't mean I'm ungrateful.
Maybe leaving doesn't mean I'm choosing a man over my family.
Maybe leaving means I'm finally choosing myself.
Maybe I'm finally allowed to build a home where I don't have to lie to feel safe.
Maybe I'm finally allowed to become the mother I needed when I was a little girl.
Maybe I'm finally allowed to have the childhood I never got to have in some weird way — by creating a safe home for my own child.
And maybe being terrified doesn't automatically mean I'm making the wrong decision.
So Reddit, please don't just tell me what I want to hear.
I don't want “you got this, queen.”
I don't want people to blindly tell me my parents are evil.
And I don't want people to blindly tell me my boyfriend is perfect.
I want honesty.
If you've ever left your parents' home after growing up in a family where obedience, sacrifice, guilt, and parental approval were everything — what happened?
Did you regret leaving?
Did you feel guilty?
Did you cry?
Did you feel like you were abandoning your family?
Did your relationship with your parents get better once you had distance?
And if you grew up in an immigrant family, how did you learn that you can love your parents without allowing them to control your life?
And for anyone who has survived an abusive relationship:
How the hell did you learn to trust a good man again?
How did you learn to accept help without feeling like a charity case?
How did you move in with someone without feeling like you were putting your entire life in their hands?
Because that's where I am.
I'm not trying to run away from my parents.
I'm trying to figure out whether I finally have to leave in order to become my own person.
And I'm fucking terrified.
But for the first time in my life, I think I might be more terrified of staying than I am of leaving.
