Growing up, I was told by my parents that I could be anything I wanted to be and they wouldn’t love me any less. I was told to do my own thing and not let anyone get in the way of it. I was told to do my best, and anything that goes wrong after that is out of my control. My parents told me that they understood, which I’m starting to realize they actually do. They are my creators, my supporters, my pillar, my constant. And I’m realizing now more than ever that I need them more than anything, because they know.

Back when my biggest worries were how badly I would skin my knee or who I would play with on the playground, my parents knew. They knew of my ambitions that hid behind my reticent smile even before I did. They pushed me to do my best while still making their love for me blatantly obvious. I grew older and tried to “mature” faster by acting like the fifth and sixth graders I knew. They knew it wasn’t “just a phase,” but that I would spend the rest of my life trying to grow up faster than I should. My parents knew.

My parents knew. They knew back in middle school when I had my mind set on never going back because a blow up I had with a friend could never be forgiven. They told me I had to go back before the week was over; I was fuming. My world was ending and they were forcing me to stare my problems down and get over it. I walked in to school the next day, with a lump in my throat. I floated me and my melancholia in and out of my six classes and when that was finished, I walked home. I walked home mad. Mad not only because I went to school, but the fact that my parents were right about it not being as bad as I thought. They understood.

My parents know. Now, in high school, the age of angst and independence, I’m terrified. With two AP classes, studying for the ACT and SAT, extracurriculars, and work, my temper is shorter, my hours of sleep are little to none, and my attitude towards my parents is not what it should be. I yell and scream and roll my eyes when they say I can’t go out with my friends because my homework. Through all of that though, they’re still there. Partially because they have to be, and my mother’s conscience wouldn’t allow her to put me out on the street. But also because they know I don’t mean any of the snarky comments I throw their way. If I didn’t have them right by my side through the tears shed over a bad grade or stress from practice that night, I would still be a tear-stained ball curled up on the floor.

I’m even more terrified for what is to come. Not in the pessimistic sense of things, but the not-so-sugar-coated way. I catch myself worrying about things too far into the future, and my parents know that. I am their child that will have gray hair before I turn 30. I worry that the real world will eat me up and spit me out and I will have to get back up and brush it off without shedding a tear. Granted, the struggles that they faced in their young adulthood will not be identical to mine, nor would I want them to be. My dad switched colleges multiple times before deciding what he really wanted to do with his life. My mom has had people take advantage of her kind heart and overworked her. Yes, I am their child. I am indecisive and fragile. I will make mistakes that I fear will break me and leave me spiritless in this big bad world. But my parents will see that. They will see that those little adversities are not going to keep me down. Those hardships will change me, I know that already. But my parents realized that long before I even thought to. My parents always knew.