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Heaving in gulps of air, I clutched onto the handrail to steady myself. Please say 9:00 minutes, I silently begged as I pulled out my stopwatch. 9:24 - not even close.
There I was at my school's track, possibly my least favorite place in the world, to accomplish one goal: run a 9:00 mile to pass the 8th grade physical education requirement. After weeks of trying, I plodded hopelessly around the lane as my time wavered stubbornly around 9:20.
Feeling somewhat defeated, I started another lap before I heard someone running behind me in quick yet graceful leaps. "Go Gary!" A familiar voice rang out. Turning around mid-step, I was dumbstruck to see my mother waving enthusiastically, and I promptly tripped over my own feet.
I guess I felt so surprised to see her because I was accustomed to handling things myself. Growing up, I was raised by parents who could barely leave work and relied on me to be independent. My parents used to say, "The best you can do to help us is to look after yourself and your sister," advice that deeply ingrained within me and became my source of motivation. From attending parent-teacher conferences alone to searching for a new piano teacher, I learned to figure out my college-bound path, a road unfamiliar to my parents. At home, I became the de facto chef, humming over the stove while the saucepan simmered with linguine as I prepared Sunday "sibling" dinners for my sister and me. I familiarized myself with my family's medical reports and used my "grown up" voice to arrange medical appointments. "Dad, remember to see the throat doctor today!" I would sternly remind him as I rushed out to school.
To some, this family arrangement might seem unbalanced, but I prided myself on the fact that my parents trusted me to be responsible. Over the years, however, my self-sufficiency grew into a shield between my parents and me. What began as a suitable unspoken arrangement devolved into a polite, impersonal relationship. When my dad peered over my shoulder as I read a poem, I would innocuously brush off his questions. After all, how could he help with literary analysis if he couldn't speak English?
Back on the track I looked up and saw my mom's outstretched hand reaching for mine. "Your teacher informed me you were struggling," she stated matter-of-factly, "so I came to check up on you. Let's start running!"
Taking off work early for two weeks, my mother ran alongside me and pointed out simple posture and breathing techniques. On the last day, when my stopwatch finally read 9:00, I dropped to my knees and thanked the track gods. Patting my shoulder, my mother said fondly, "Gary, we're here for you."
This small moment of reconciliation led to ever-greater reconnections with my parents. Recognizing that they have always supported me in their own way, whether it was simply turning off the lights when I fell asleep from studying or sharing their experience when I struggled to raise funds for charity, I began sharing my feelings with them. I thought they would be bothered with hearing my stories, but on the contrary, I saw their genuine smiles of relief that I wasn't trying to handle everything on my own.
This nuanced understanding of my parents encouraged me to become more sensitive to the world around me. Perhaps others might also not be brave enough to ask for help. Was the smiling person across the lunch table happy or putting on a brave face? I began to catch the slightest wavering of the eyes, the brief slip of the mask, and cared enough to reach out.
Seeing the world through this new lens of mutual understanding, I realized the shield that separated people was self-imposed. When my watch read 9:00, for the first time in a long time, I knew I was not alone.
