I Never Want to Have a Kid Like Me

When I look back at how I treated my parents, I realize with a mixture of sadness and guilt that I never want to have a child like me. It’s not that I didn’t love them or appreciate them; it’s that I often struggled to express it in ways they deserved. Reflecting on those years, I see how much I lacked in empathy, how I took so much for granted. Now, as an adult, I am grateful for everything they did, but the only way I know how to repay them is by working hard and providing financially.

Growing up, I was probably like most kids—absorbed in my own world, not fully understanding the sacrifices my parents made to give me a good life. From my education to my well-being, they prioritized me in ways I didn’t fully recognize at the time. I never quite saw the late nights, the worry lines, or the countless small sacrifices they made daily. I often viewed their efforts as obligations rather than acts of love.

I didn’t realize that my lack of understanding hurt them. My inability to empathize at the time made me blind to the ways I might have unintentionally caused them pain. It’s not that I was a “bad” kid; I was just, in a way, detached from their struggles. And now, with the clarity of hindsight, I feel a deep sense of regret for not recognizing it sooner.

As I grew older, I tried to show my appreciation in the way I knew best: through hard work and financial support. I wanted them to see that their sacrifices weren’t in vain, that their dreams of a good life for me were coming to fruition. Yet, sometimes it feels like it’s still not enough. Money and success can’t replace the warmth of real connection, the depth of understanding I wish I had shown earlier.

Perhaps the fear of having a child like me comes from this feeling of having missed out on something essential in my relationship with my parents. I fear raising a child who might unknowingly walk that same path of detachment, who may grow up failing to see the sacrifices I’d make for them. It’s not that I don’t want to be a parent or wouldn’t love my future children deeply; it’s that I’m afraid of repeating this pattern.

This realization has taught me to look at my parents differently. It has also made me more empathetic toward them as people, separate from their role as “Mom” and “Dad.” I am beginning to understand that part of being a loving child means not only working hard and providing but also being present, appreciating, and truly seeing the people who raised me.

Maybe I’ll still have kids one day, but if I do, I hope to pass on this empathy to them. I want them to know love in all its forms—beyond just hard work and sacrifice. And maybe, in trying to raise them differently, I’ll heal this part of myself, too.