How the fear of turning into my mother shaped who I am today

As I get older, the reality of it all becomes more apparent. On social media, it manifests as reels about breaking generational trauma. In books and films, it appears through characters like Lily Bloom in It Ends With Us, horrified to find herself trapped in the same cycle of domestic abuse as her mother, or Vijay Chavan in Agneepath, drawn into the mafia to prove his father’s ways wrong. The struggle to avoid repeating our parents' mistakes is a recurring theme in popular culture. Lines like “You’ll understand when you have children of your own” often prompt quiet resolutions of, “I’ll never parent like you did.”

Truthfully, this idea terrifies me—the notion that one extreme can give rise to another. I think of all the stories I’ve heard about my mother’s childhood, how she had to step up at a young age to care for her family when hard times struck, and my grandmother fell ill. This experience likely instilled in her a determination that her child would never have to face the same struggles.

And so, my childhood unfolded—a pampered upbringing where my mother refused to let me handle even the simplest tasks, like filling a water bottle or cleaning my room. On the surface, it seemed ideal, but in reality, it led to endless arguments—even more so when I remembered that I’d have to move out one day and do everything on my own. Over time, my need for independence only grew stronger.

“Let us take care of it now; you’ll have to do it yourself later anyway,” was my mother’s go-to response in nearly every argument. She often recounted how, decades ago, her relatives had said the same thing to my grandmother, though in a completely different context. At just sixteen, my mother was cooking meals for a family of five, managing finances, and taking care of all the housework before heading to school. “She’ll have to do it when she gets married anyway,” they’d say, justifying the weight of those responsibilities.

I suppose those early responsibilities shaped my mother’s tendency to dismiss physical labour and idealise academia in ways I may never fully understand. They also fuelled her determination to ensure that my childhood would be nothing like hers. What has always surprised me, though, is how one extreme in one generation can so often give rise to the opposite in the next—just like mine.

I moved out for college when I was eighteen, but until I was sixteen, I couldn’t even turn on a burner, wash my own underwear, or sweep the floor after a spill. Anytime I brought it up, I was met with the same mantra at home: “Focus on your grades; everything else will be taken care of.”

This intense focus on academics paid off in school, earning me excellent grades, but by the time I got to college, I began to resent the pressure. Determined to prove that grades weren’t everything, I threw myself into internships and research papers, often skipping classes in the process. My scores began to slip, but I convinced myself that a well-rounded résumé would matter more than a perfect GPA. Now, looking back, I wonder if I was really trying to build a future for myself—or just trying to prove to my mother that there’s more to life than grades.

My mother often shares stories from her childhood—her father’s wise lessons, inside jokes with her brother, and cherished memories with her cousins. Yet, in all these tales, my grandmother was rarely mentioned. To my ten-year-old self, this seemed perfectly normal—just another facet of my mother’s life.

As I grew older, however, I began to notice the subtle gaps, the small cracks in those stories. I realised that my grandmother had a quiet, almost passive presence in my mother’s world. Beyond the fact that she was a skilled cook and did her chores whenever her health allowed, I knew very little about her. Perhaps, I thought, their relationship was more complicated than it appeared.

The first time I truly heard my mother speak about my grandmother was months after she passed away. Despite being deeply spiritual, my mother had always avoided certain conventional religious practices. For instance, she never memorised the Hanuman Chalisa—a decision that had always disappointed my grandmother.

A few days after my grandmother passed away, I overheard my mother telling my aunt about the effort her mother had put into marking pages in scriptures, folding corners, and leaving little cues to ensure my mother would remember to read them. And yet, it wasn’t until my grandmother was gone that my mother began reading the Chalisa every day, quietly slipping it into her prayers as if fulfilling an unspoken promise between them.

Since then, my mother has found small yet meaningful ways to cherish my grandmother's memory—whether it’s laughing about her knack for imitating accents or recreating dishes she knows my grandmother would have loved. Maybe, when someone is gone, no matter how complicated the relationship, we hold on to the small silver linings.

It makes me think of how excited I am to send my mother pictures whenever I visit a glassware shop or pick up a new piece of decor for my room. When someone compliments my space, I imagine how proud she’d be to know I’ve inherited her eye for detail. While both of us have our fair share of grievances about our mothers, there is an unspoken appreciation for the things we’ve absorbed from them—and with it, a quiet, enduring gratitude.

My mother still gets flustered when I try to help at home, even though she can’t do as much as she used to. Often, I have to step in despite her protests. But sometimes, we meet halfway—like making fritters for a guest, which turns into a bonding moment.

I can’t help but wonder: will I only fully appreciate her when she’s no longer around? And if I become a mother someday, what kind of mother will I be? I just hope to avoid the extremes that both, my mother and grandmother experienced.

Lead image credit: Getty Images

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