The Weight of Resentment: Why Basic Parental Duties Aren’t Badges of Honor

I think we’ve all heard it, haven’t we? Those words meant to remind us of the sacrifices made for us—the roof over our heads, the food on the table, the clothes that shielded us from the cold. But what was meant to illustrate love and care often landed like a backhanded reminder that our very existence was an imposition. “I gave you food, clothes, shelter,” my mother would say. But beneath those words, I felt a weight that no child should carry: the burden of feeling unwanted, like I was simply too much.

Growing up, I learned to interpret these statements as something more unpleasant. “Look at what I’ve done for you,” she seemed to say, with an invisible “and look at what I’ve had to give up.” Instead of comfort, it often left me feeling like my presence was something to tolerate, as if I were a chore or a hurdle. This narrative—repeated enough—seeps into the soul of a child, shaping them in ways they can’t yet understand but will spend a lifetime unraveling.

This perspective is deeply rooted in the culture I was raised in. In Mexican households, it’s common for parents to remind their children of everything they’ve done to support them. I heard it from my grandmother to my mother, from my mother to us, and in nearly every other Mexican household I knew. The phrase becomes almost ritualistic, as if a reminder that simply being here comes with a price.

In my culture, family is everything. But sometimes, that devotion comes tangled in duty and sacrifice, with love measured by how much was given up. It’s as though suffering, in some way, proves a parent’s commitment, and this suffering is woven into the fabric of love itself. For a child, however, hearing these words is not comforting; instead, they carry the painful implication that one’s very existence is burdensome. There is an invisible ledger, a tally of what has been given, as if love and care are debts to be repaid. Children in this dynamic grow up not seeing themselves as worthy of care but rather as obligations to be fulfilled.

There is an unspoken contract between parent and child, one that is signed the moment they choose to bring a new life into this world. That contract should not come with disclaimers, sacrifices, or accolades for meeting the bare essentials. To nurture and care for the children we bring into this life shouldn’t come with a price tag or tally marks. Children don’t come into this world asking for luxury—they come here asking simply to be loved, valued, and to exist in a world that sees them as a gift, not as an obligation. When we fail to honor that, something precious is stolen, leaving scars that often remain long after our childhood fades.

For many of us, the weight of this resentment has cast shadows over every aspect of life. I often wondered, “Was it me? Was I just too difficult, too needy, too… much?” Over time, this line of thinking turned inward, wrapping itself around my sense of worth. Relationships felt fragile, love felt conditional, and my own voice seemed somehow too loud. The unspoken message I’d grown up hearing—that I was something to put up with rather than someone to cherish—shaped the way I saw myself and others. I became someone who would do anything to avoid being a burden, to never be “too much,” someone who tried to earn their place in every room, every relationship, every breath.

It’s difficult now, looking back, to understand how gratitude fits into this story. In some ways, I owe so much to my caretakers—my mother, my father, my family—for everything they provided. And yet, the gratitude I’m supposed to feel remains just out of reach, because the love they gave—especially my mother’s—never felt unburdened by resentment. How do I honor their sacrifices while feeling that I was more of an obligation than a joy? I want to look back and feel the weight of love behind their actions, but instead, I feel the weight of what it cost them. It’s a sadness I’m still learning to hold—a longing to believe that their care was motivated by love instead of duty.

When parents wear their duties like badges of honor, it leaves the child wondering if they were ever truly welcome. Love becomes transactional, measured by provisions instead of presence. And children—ever perceptive—pick up on this. They feel the heaviness, the unspoken cost, and it seeps into the way they move through the world. Over the years, I began to realize just how deeply these early wounds ran. They weren’t simply moments to brush off; they were seeds planted in my heart, shaping the person I would become. And healing from them wasn’t about taking a straight path. It was about doubling back, feeling lost, pausing, and then finding my way again. It was a process of rebuilding the foundation that I should have been given freely as a child.

And though I never became a mother, perhaps by a prayer I spoke as a young child, I can still understand that if a child comes into this world, they owe nothing for the love they receive. They arrive because they are a part of life’s beauty, deserving of love that doesn’t measure or weigh but simply exists as freely as the breath they take.

This is a love that says, “You are here, and that is enough.” Perhaps this is why so many of us now struggle to embody true unconditional love—because we were taught that our existence carried a fee, and that knowledge cuts deep.

To anyone else who has carried this weight, who has questioned their worth because they were made to feel like “too much,” I see you. You are not a burden. Your presence is a gift, one that needed no justification or validation. You were not a checklist of obligations to be met, nor were you an inconvenience. Let’s unburden ourselves together, one compassionate step at a time, embracing the right to exist without guilt and finding joy in the simple truth that we, in all our humanity, are enough.

Perhaps in doing this healing, we can begin to offer true unconditional love—to our children, to our partners, to family, friends, and humanity itself.