KARA MARIELA

Throughout my twenties, I always thought that by the time I turned 30, I would have everything sorted—all my life goals neatly checked off, reaching the pinnacle of success, and becoming the best version of myself; whatever that means. While it might seem ambitious at first, if I were to question my 25-year-old self about what lies beyond after every goal is accomplished and what I was truly seeking in life, I wouldn’t have had an answer—nor did I ever think of it that way. My tendency was to prioritize what I assumed others wanted to see in me, essentially, a perfected form of myself. To be superior to most people was something I constantly and subconsciously pursued. 

I’ve spent most of my twenties preoccupied by others’ opinions, irretrievably losing time chasing mere tokens of praise from others rather than from myself. I’ve made bad decisions in my past relationships during my desperate attempt to validate my appearance. I’ve spent too much of the little money I earned on things I couldn’t afford to make myself look or feel better. At this point, my life pursuits felt pretentious; it appeared more like an effort to inflate my ego rather than a sincere reflection of my true self. For as long as I can remember, my approach to life has primarily revolved around pursuing significant moments—those worthy of celebrations and pride—as a means to measure my life’s worth and values.

As I recently entered my thirties, I’ve reflected on my past life with a mix of emotions, but mostly regrets. There have been many moments I wished to relive, and none of those moments involve achieving career milestones. I certainly don’t mean that my past milestones lack meaning. I just wish that I hadn’t spent most of my time being too consumed by others’ opinions of me. Instead, I wish I had focused more on the reasons behind my ambitions or on who I was doing it for.

I was 22 when my grandmother visited from abroad and watched my cheerleading team perform. After the performance, as the captain, I had to gather my team back to the dressing room when my mother stopped me to say that my grandmother asked for a picture. She always carried her camera everywhere, and my mother told me that my grandmother would love to have a picture with me in the uniform. It was hectic, and I ended up rejecting the request, explaining that I couldn’t because I had to rush back. I remember that after I finished with my team, I hurried to find my grandmother. Eventually, I did take a picture with her, but not in my uniform. My mother was disappointed that I had already changed clothes; it seemed significant for her to have me in my uniform because my grandmother had never seen me in one. I never thought much of it until my grandmother passed away, and it turned out to be her last visit. 

Back then, I didn’t understand why it mattered for my grandmother to have a picture with me in my uniform, especially since she hadn’t seen me in years and had traveled miles for the occasion. But now I do. She deserves it—a proud moment with her granddaughter. She wouldn’t care about me winning; it was simply the fact that she had made it to this part of my life that mattered to her, as much as it should have mattered to me.

Now I understand why my mother wanted to accompany me during my thesis defense, even though I told her she didn’t have to bother coming simply because I was afraid of not achieving a high score and being a disappointment. I still remember when the lecturers asked if my mother was outside when they wanted to announce my score, and I told them I was alone. When they announced that I was graduating with the highest score, the first thing I did was call my mother, and I could hear the disappointment in her voice because she wasn’t there. It was never about whether I accomplished the highest result or not; what mattered to her was being there for me.

Will I be able to compensate myself for it? Unlikely. However, I’ve been pondering what truly matters to me now that I’m older and a mother.

With the birth of my baby, it was as if everything I knew of the world had disappeared. My daughter’s presence signifies both closure and the start of a new chapter. It has brought me the realization that my life wasn’t just on hold—it’s truly over. It started as terrifying, mainly because the transition into motherhood evidently pushed my personal goals and past identity further away from me. But as those were pushed away, what I thought was important doesn’t seem as significant anymore. Nothing seems to matter more than the fact that I’m being her mother.

Becoming a mother was an unexpected turn of events in my life, but in a more illuminating way. Witnessing my baby whisper ‘it’s okay’ to herself when she makes a mess, hearing her say ‘I’m strong’ while carrying objects her size, and ‘I did it!’ when she successfully puts her socks on may not sound as grand or deserving of celebrations. Yet, these small joys felt more rewarding than all the rewards I’ve associated with myself throughout my life. And it’s not even about her achieving her milestones; it’s about being a part of her life.