Me, My Life & Why Part 8

Part 8

My mother called me.

Which, in itself, was suspicious. She usually texts. Short, sharp, “?”-filled messages like she’s trying to quiz me into adulthood.

But this time she called.

With voice.

Which meant someone had either died or I’d alarmed her in a way that required tone of voice and motherly sighs.

Spoiler: no one died.

She just saw my Instagram story where I was eating cereal in bed at 3pm and captioned it “productivity is a scam and so is capitalism.”

Apparently, that was her tipping point.

“Are you okay?” she asked, in that careful voice people use when they suspect you’ve shaved your head in a public park.

“I’m great,” I said, truthfully, in between mouthfuls of toast.

Silence.

She was clearly waiting for the punchline. Or a breakdown. Or at least a visible job title.

“You just… seem different,” she said.

“I’m not different,” I told her. “I’m just not pretending to be dying inside anymore.”

She didn’t laugh.

She also didn’t argue. Which is worse.

“Sweetheart,” she said, which is what she calls me right before suggesting I try joining a gym or “eating more greens” like they’re antidepressants.

“Are you… involved in something?”

“What, like a cult?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You heavily implied it.”

She sighed.

A soft, maternal sigh that translated roughly to: “You were supposed to have it together by now and I don’t know how to support this version of you that wears the same hoodie for three days and talks about rest like it’s a career path.”

“I’m just… concerned,” she finally said.

That’s the word. Concerned.

The gentle weapon of every well-meaning mother who doesn’t know what to do with a daughter who opted out of the script.

To her, this doesn’t look like peace.

It looks like collapse.

Because I’m not getting up early.

I’m not taking calls.

I’m not chasing anything except the right level of toast crispiness and occasionally, my own sanity.

And if you’ve been raised on achievement = value, anything else looks like failure.

“I’m not in a cult,” I said. “Unless you count unsubscribing from burnout culture and embracing naps as a form of resistance.”

She didn’t laugh.

Again.

“I just want you to be happy,” she added, which almost got me. Almost.

But here’s the thing: I am happy.

Weirdly, softly, quietly happy.

The kind of happy that doesn’t look good on a CV but feels nice in your bones.

I’m not performing joy.

I’m not curating it.

I’m just… being. Eating toast. Ignoring emails. Feeling my feelings in real time instead of letting them pile up like laundry.

She doesn’t get it.

And that’s okay.

Because I used to not get it either.

I used to think this version of me, hoodie-wearing, non-shaving, cereal-in-bed me, was rock bottom.

Turns out, she’s just finally… not faking it.

We ended the call politely.

She told me to take care of myself. I told her to stop watching the news.

It was a draw.

Then I lay back down, crumb-covered and guilt-free, and whispered to the ceiling:

“Mum thinks I’ve joined a cult.

And honestly?

If this is one…

The dress code is phenomenal.