Messy Beginnings by Suzu

Messy Beginnings by Suzu - July 2025 Scholarship Essay

One piece of advice I would give to my past self: expression will find its way to healing.

During a heated argument with one’s mother, I assume that more than a handful of children have heard these words before: “I wish I had never given birth to you.” Just a few words leave you shaken, stab a bloody hole in your heart, as you tearfully stay silent while those wounds are left unhealed. My mom and I occasionally have one of these arguments. “You need to do this for your body, why can’t you understand?!”, “I’m doing this for you!” and “I don’t care anymore!” —my mom shouted all three sentences cumulatively when she found out I wasn’t treating my medical condition properly at the time at the age of 12. Old enough to take care of myself, yet the minutes the medical treatment processes took away from my daily life enraged me. That same night, my mom cried, and so did I, just in separate rooms. And on the same night, she hugged me tight in her arms and said, “I’m sorry”, followed by, “I’m trying my best.”

In the blink of an eye, the same 12-year-old girl was now 18, trying to face the financial burden of college funds realistically. It was late March when I had been accepted into USC Marshall, and for 4 months, I was struggling to make the right decision. My mom was heavily against student loans, and I resisted her disagreement. I came home from work, crying, again, as usual, as if this is new. My mom waited for me to come home until 10 PM, and the miso soup, the rice, and the vegetables were set on the table, warm and ready to eat, as usual. She asked me what was wrong, and I only murmured, “I want to go to USC.” Nothing was new, and this argument felt repetitive. She talked in a high-pitched, loud tone for 15 minutes, and I kept my chin down while wet tears fell on my jeans. Countless thoughts spiraled in my mind; I wanted to tell her that the things she tells me aren’t always true, that my dream matters most, and that I struggle to find the right words. Therefore, I knew it wasn’t impulsive when I shouted, “I’ve got something to say!”

Not many words came from my mouth after that, but one thing I was sure of was that I absolutely DID have something to say. I just couldn’t say it at the time. Regardless, I felt a sense of relief when I yelled it out. It felt nice to be able to say something. My mom was still upset; I felt the knot in her throat as she held it in and told me to eat my food before it got cold. She walked away into her room with furrowed brows and downcast eyes.

This moment didn’t fix the argument or move a dollar off my tuition, but it resolved a part of myself. Our argument didn’t end perfectly, but I enjoyed that it didn’t feel robotic. Everything felt real, and I spoke emotions that I felt to my core. Anger, frustration, and sorrow were everything I felt at once during those 15 minutes, but it seemed as if one shout cut it all off. I told my mom words that I was too scared to say aloud for years. I was never exactly sure of what I was scared of, but I believed that I wasn’t anymore. The moment of need to always talk everything out properly, and those internal thoughts that wondered why we can’t ever communicate disappeared when I shouted. I realized that I still spoke.

I had always assumed those years of silence during these repetitive arguments would save me. I understand now that silence does not need to save me, because there is nothing that I must be saved from. Out of the thousands of inside voices that spoke in my mind, I’m glad I didn’t choose a single one of them. Ultimately, I was proud that I didn’t even wait for perfect words. Though these heated arguments feel endless, I believe there shouldn’t be an ending. Every argument, every shouting, and every word I have with my mom are now truly honest beginnings that lead to gradual progress. These beginnings are messy, loud, and emotional, but no longer quiet. My mom and I still cry, we shout, and lie. However, at the end of our tunnels, I will find her warm hugs and freshly-cooked dinner. My voice matters, and so does hers.

I wish that I could tell my past self that her voice speaks louder than her tears. My 12-year-old self may have been irrational, and I still am at times, but I believe her emotions deserved to be heard. I believe she deserved to feel relieved and confident. For all that, this belief is not limited to the kitchen table with two seats for me and my mom. My ability to express my emotions with words, any word, follows me into this writing, conversations with friends, and the individual I strive to pursue within myself. My mom and I may never truly understand each other, but we find solutions through the courage to speak.