I think my mom is ugly. Or I used to, at least. And, though I know I sound like a horribly bratty child right now (and though that might be a bit accurate), it’s true. Every time I look at her, all I can see is her slightly crooked yellowish-green eyes, her slowly graying hair, and the stress-induced wrinkles that neatly surround her eyes as she speaks. The thing is, though, I look exactly like my mom. I mean, the number of times that grandparents and aunts and uncles have said, “Hey, how ya doin’, Cathy!?” to me as I approach them is a bit absurd. While I usually just laugh this off (and it is quite amusing to see the instant regret flush their faces when they realize they told me something I wasn’t supposed to hear - my grandma even once began to tell me what she was gifting me for my birthday), the idea of my identity being so closely related to that of my parent’s is everyone’s nightmare, right?
I noticed myself developing the same anxiety-ridden thought process as my mom. The same catchphrases and mannerisms that I once (albeit lightheartedly) made fun of with my siblings. Suddenly, my identity within my family was the only thing I could ever think about. Was I destined to become my mom? While I certainly respect the heck out of her for all she does, this need for an individuality complex consumed all of my thoughts and opinions about this woman I love so dearly. So, I shut her out. Not necessarily on purpose, but everything she would tell me would just immediately go in one ear and out the other. I focused on the way her lips would move in all different directions as she spoke, as her smile positioned slightly to the right as she gritted her teeth, and as the scar on her nose from when she fell as a toddler became slightly more apparent on her aging skin. Desperate to ignore the identical slight crookedness in our bottom teeth and the identically wide and milia-spotted noses that took up the majority of our face, I couldn’t even look my mother in the eyes without my ears steaming from the threats of her very appearance.
Without an identity to call my own, I did what any sensible teenager would do: I rebelled. I rebelled for even the slightest sense of control over my own life. Rather than taking Spanish classes (which my mom suggested as a more practical choice), I took four years of French. Rather than “enjoying” my senior year (as my mom had advised me to), I didn’t hesitate to overload my schedule with AP Bio, Chem, or Calc BC. While it would certainly look better to say my actions stemmed from a life-long passion for science, that simply isn’t the case. They stemmed from a wonderful harmony of irrationality and insufferable pettiness.
However, as I basked in the glory of French literacy and gleefully-completed tedious-titration labs, I realized that these long-term decisions I made out of pure spite put me exactly where I needed to be: an environment of grueling and ambiguous discomfort. I learned to strive for discomfort. For not knowing what impossible calc problems, intimidating club presentations, or never-ending biology labs will be thrown at me next. Rather than escaping this “ugliness” I used to dread, I’ve grown to love it. I owe my success to this ugliness. Because, without the ugliness, I would have stayed in the comfort of underachievement. Thanks to my mother, whom I so desperately tried to steer myself away from, I’ve finally developed my passion: a passion for risk-taking.
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Mom (College Essay)