The Room Where They Argue
They are divorced in real life. But inside me? They're still together
I get frustrated. Not the cute kind of frustrated where you sigh and go make a cup of tea — the deep, bone-heavy kind, where every part of you wants to create something but your hands won’t obey because your mind has them hostage. I want to make what I really want, but I don’t have the skill yet, not enough to match the vision in my head. And still, I can’t stop. My mind grips it like a dog with a bone, biting, wrestling, refusing to let go.
But there’s a voice. Always, the voice.
It says: Maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe it won’t work. Maybe you’re wasting your time. What you’ve done already is enough.
And then I’m paralyzed. The spark collapses into ashes. I pull back. I stop. But the desire doesn’t die — it waits in the corner, twitching. And sooner or later, I go back to it again. And again, the voice steps forward, blocking the doorway.
This voice is not a stranger. It’s my father.
My father — who treats risk like a rattlesnake, whose whole life has been about security, whose courage only extends as far as the walls of a steady job. My father, who has taught me the gospel of be careful until it’s etched in my bones. And when I try to dream, it’s him I hear, shaking his head.
But my mother is here too.
My mother — the risk-taker. She jumps into fire with bare feet. She invests, she tries, she chases dreams. And each time, she lands in debt, asking for help. Her fire never goes out, but her patterns never change. And so my father looks at her and says, See? I was right.
They are divorced in real life. But inside me? They’re still together. They still argue. And I am the room where their argument happens.
One voice says: Go. Freedom. Exploration. Leap and don’t look back.
The other says: Pull back. Think. Prove it first. Protect what you have.
Both believe they’re saving me. Both have evidence. Both are exhausting.
I have tried to make them divorce in my head, but I can’t. They are fused in me, tangled into my thinking. And every time I try to create, I am caught between them.
So I decided to speak to them.
Mom, I tell her, I have your fire. I feel your dreams burning in me. You gave me the energy to chase, to fight, to build. That seed is alive. I will not let it die. But I need you to trust me. Rest. Watch. Let me make my own choice, and don’t worry so much. I’ve got it.
Dad, I tell him, I know your fear. I’ve seen what you’ve seen — the patterns, the failures, the waste. I understand why you hold back. And I thank you for the foundation you gave me. But I need you to step back from this part of my life. I’m not reckless. I know my limits. I’m building my own safety net. I need you to say it: Go for it, girl. I’ve got your back. Even if it costs time, even if it costs money, I want you to see that every step is progress. That you’re proud of me — not because the world claps, but because I keep moving forward.
And then I step out of the room where they argue.
I look at them from a distance — these two voices, both worn from their own lives, both fighting battles they lost long ago — and I see they’re not my truth. They’re just the programming I inherited.
In the quiet, I feel something else.
Not my mother’s fire. Not my father’s fear.
It’s softer than both — a faint echo.
The memory of a girl I once was, before she knew what she should be, before she learned what she must achieve.
She didn’t think about winning.
She didn’t think about proving.
She just moved — lost in her own small worlds, her own games, her own wonder.
I wish to return to her.
To create like she played.
To live inside the process without asking if it’s worth it.
No applause. No scoreboard.
Only the moment.
“Are you still there? I return to you now.
But because this is what I’m here for:
To enjoy the process.
To live in the making.
To merge, to emerge, to create.