A New Year’s Reckoning: Learning to Live for Myself

“Oh, Emily, is that you? Coming to see your mom again?” The voice slices through the crisp winter air even before I close my car door. Mrs. Jenkins, our across-the-hall neighbor, is leaning over her second-floor balcony, the same position she’s occupied for as long as I can remember. She squints down at me, coffee mug in hand, her robe pulled tight over her floral pajamas.

I force a smile, though my insides are already coiling. “Good morning, Mrs. Jenkins. Yes, just here to see Mom.”

She nods, eyes narrowing. “Well, she’s been waiting. Been telling everyone how she’s lucky to have a daughter like you. Not every mom gets that, you know.”

A compliment, but it lands sharp and heavy. I resist the urge to explain myself—why I’m here, why I come so often, what I sacrifice every single time. Instead, I just nod and slip inside the building, the old linoleum echoing under my boots.

The apartment smells the same as always: lavender air freshener mixed with something faintly sour, maybe from the kitchen. Mom is already at the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Emily, you’re early! I was just about to start lunch. Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

She looks at me—really looks—and I see the worry lines deepening on her forehead. “You’re pale. Have you been eating?”

I drop my purse on the side table and take a breath. “I’m fine. Just tired. Work’s been… a lot.”

She doesn’t ask about my job, or the overtime, or the fact that my boss canceled my New Year’s Eve plans last night with a single text. Instead, she starts fussing around the kitchen. “You never take care of yourself, Em. You should eat more. You should rest. You should—”

“Should, should, should,” I mutter under my breath, but she doesn’t hear it. Or maybe she chooses not to.

I settle into my childhood chair and watch her stir the soup. The TV is on in the background, some daytime show about home makeovers, the kind she always leaves on for company. I think about my own apartment, quiet and cluttered, the stack of unopened mail, the plant dying by the window.

“Did you see Mrs. Jenkins on your way in? She said her daughter never visits. I told her you’re so good to me.”

“Yeah, she mentioned it.”

She brings over a bowl of soup, sets it in front of me like a peace offering. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate you, Emily. Not every daughter would drop everything to help her mother.”

There it is again—gratitude laced with expectation. Like it’s my duty to be here, to fill the empty air with talk and soup and the kind of presence you can’t get over the phone. I spoon the soup to my lips but barely taste it.

“Mom, can I ask you something?” My voice quivers, surprising us both.

She sits down, smoothing her skirt nervously. “Of course.”

“Do you ever wish…” I trail off, searching for words, “that I lived my own life more? That I… I don’t know, said no sometimes?”

Her eyes widen in shock. “Emily, what are you talking about? You’re my daughter. Family comes first.”

“But what about me?” The words are out before I can stop them. “What about my own life? My own dreams?”

She stares at me, bewildered. “I never asked you to give up your life.”

I laugh, hollow. “You didn’t have to. Every time you called, I came. Every time you needed something, I figured it out. I missed vacations, I canceled dates, I even skipped my best friend’s wedding because you were sick. Do you know how alone I feel sometimes?”

The room is silent except for the TV, which suddenly seems too loud. Mom’s eyes fill with tears. She dabs at them with her napkin, but I can tell she’s angry, too. “I didn’t realize I was a burden.”

“That’s not what I mean. I love you, Mom. But I’m tired. I want to live for me, just once.”

She looks away, staring at the faded wallpaper. “When your father left, it was just us. We had to stick together. I thought you understood that.”

I swallow hard. “I did. I do. But I’m not a kid anymore. I can’t keep living my life for other people.”

She stands abruptly, the chair scraping back. “Maybe you should go. If that’s how you feel.”

My heart pounds. I want to reach for her, to take it all back, but I don’t. Instead, I gather my things in silence, the air between us thick with words we can’t say.

On the way out, Mrs. Jenkins is still on her balcony, watching. I ignore her, hurrying down the stairs, my breath coming fast in the cold January air.

I sit in my car, hands shaking, tears blurring the dashboard. The engine hums beneath me, but I can’t make myself drive. I think about all the years I’ve spent putting everyone else first—my mom, my job, even nosy neighbors like Mrs. Jenkins. I think about what it would mean to choose myself, just this once, and how terrifying that feels.

Back at my apartment, I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, searching for the girl I used to be. The one with plans and hope and a spark in her eyes. I wonder if she’s still in there, buried beneath the weight of obligation and guilt.

It’s January 1st. A new year. People make resolutions, promises to change, to be better. But what does it mean to change when everyone expects you to stay the same?

Maybe today is the day I start living for myself. Maybe not. But I know this: something has to give.

Have you ever felt trapped by love and duty? Have you ever wondered if it’s okay to put yourself first?