Worlds Away but Closer Than Ever: Repairing My Relationship With My Mother

Words by Joanna Fan (she/her)

I have 20,000 photos on my phone, and almost none of them are of my mother. When people ask to see what she looks like, I am forced to scroll furiously back to 2015 and dig up memories that seem a lifetime away. But I do have photos of her. Actually, I have a whole wall above my desk adorned with photos of my parents. In these photos, they explore Finland, Germany, Lithuania, Indonesia, take trips to my dad’s hometown in rural China, and attend extravagant dinner soirées. There are no under-eye bags, no screaming children, no frowns—instead, faces of pure bliss. Genuine beams. Eyes brimming with the vibrancy and freedom of youth. Of course, these are film photos and polaroids from the 90’s, a lifetime captured before I existed. 

The truth is, looking at recent photos of my mother is a painful thing to do. The feelings captured in those film photos have since disappeared, and what lies within our digital captures tells a completely different story. There’s one photo in particular permanently etched into my memory. A seemingly loving family photo from 2009. You won’t notice, but what is painfully obvious to me are our fake smiles and my puffy eyes. Another sleepless night. When they say a photo speaks a thousand words, I’m sure that this is the photo they mean. Every parent and teacher at that school must have seen right through our smokescreen. 

Around that time, I stopped looking at photos of my mother. Every detail behind every photo was a vivid traumatic memory—for me, for her. I no longer saw the beauty of nostalgia, but rather, the aftermath of a fight, the morning after another 4 a.m. spat, the capture before a screaming match. Needless to say, our love was fueled by aggression. Conflict defined every crevice of our relationship.

For one, there was piano practice. That daily hour of piano practice seemed like an eternity. It was hard enough to get me to sit down, let alone put my hands on the actual keys. Nevertheless, I did it, but not without the constant cacophony of mutual frustration and anger. I simply could not fathom why my mother would tirelessly force me to participate in something I hated so much. But this vicious cycle would continue daily for nine years. 

For me, that Steinway in the corner of our tiny apartment signified hours of screaming, tearstained manuscripts, and slammed doors. But for mum, it embodied unused potential, infinite possibilities, and hope. I, by proxy, was designated to live out the dreams mum never achieved. Mum’s modest and strict childhood meant no instruments, no sports, no hobbies, but the day I was born was the day she began to dream again. 

In my teenage years, Mum brought me to every single psychiatrist and therapist that she could find, looking for answers in a world that defied everything she valued, experienced, and learnt. Mum could not possibly understand why I wanted to lock my bedroom door, sleepover at a friend’s house, or stay out past midnight. Whilst writing this article, I struggle to recall what we were always fighting about. But that’s the hitch. We never fought about anything. I initiated arguments for the sole purpose of a fight. I wanted to break every single rule. I never understood where my mother was coming from, nor did I ever attempt to. I constantly compared my mother to my friends’ parents, and couldn’t comprehend why she wasn’t more like them. 

But Mum was never a kiwi teenager growing up in Christchurch. Mum grew up in a traditional collectivist Chinese household that valued hierarchy, respect, and obedience towards one’s parents. I was instead, raised in a culture that praised individualism, constantly encouraging me to take control of my own life, and make my own decisions. I saw it as a battle between two cultures, where only one could prevail. But we never stopped blindly pulling each other in opposite directions, and it completely tore us apart. 

But that’s the beauty of time and distance. In 2019, I moved out, and rarely initiated contact with mum. I was eager for freedom, independence, and individuality. I finally got what I wanted all along, but I had never felt more alone. In my deepest depression, I pulled out mum’s film photos out of pure desperation, and everything came into perspective. Their travels in these captures were efforts to appreciate other cultures, recognise differing values, and find mutual understanding. That kiwi culture that I tried to uphold at home was born out of ignorance and internalised racism. Mum had clearly done her homework, now it was my turn to do mine. And so I did.

Nowadays, at night, I find myself on Facetime with mum more often than not. She pretends to feed me homemade Chinese food and I offer her feijoa lollies from Night ‘n Day. In every conversation we have, without fail, mum will bring up my old childhood stories. Perhaps it’s because none of the memories from my teenage years are particularly cheerful. Then again, without fail, mum will tell me all her parenting regrets—that she was too hard on me, too strict, too cruel, too protective. But I disagree. After all, I’m grateful that a new appreciation for my traditional Chinese upbringing has brought me closer to mum, not quite in proximity, but spiritually and emotionally. So through tears, I always tell her that she tried her best—I am an only child after all, and she only had one chance. And on that one chance, you did an incredible job Mum.

I have 20,000 photos on my phone, and almost none of them are of my mother. I rummage through my camera roll, desperate for anything. Most of my searches come up empty, but I have no choice, those albums on iCloud will have to do. Because Mum lives 8000 miles across the world now, and all I have are pixelated figures behind a blue light screen. Sometimes I dream about her, reliving my teenage years, but this time, I’m not an asshole. I dream about her calling me downstairs for dinner. I dream about her dumplings. Her smell. Her hair. Her embrace. But now, pictures are all I have—those few frames of Facetime, the collage above my desk, that photo of us from 2015, will have to suffice. And if it took years of living across the world from my mother to repair our relationship, it would have been worth it.