Frances Dew

The Memories I Couldn’t Keep
by Frances Dew

An eldest daughter with both mommy and daddy issues may possibly experience memory loss, or some memories may be a bit blurry. And as an eldest daughter who has recently moved out and cut off her family, I can testify to this.

Most of my childhood memories of my mom or dad, or even both, seem to be unclear, blurry, and incomplete. No matter how hard I try to remember, I don't seem to know what happens next. It's like a puzzle that has been missing a piece. From my early childhood up until high school, my memory is dull like I'm an old person. It's like I have dementia or Alzheimer's.

Every time my friends share a memory about us in high school, I immediately feel out of place, not because they don't have a fond memory of me but because I have no idea what they are talking about. I don't remember everything about it. There are some memories that stick and remain clear, and those are either embarrassing moments or traumatic experiences.

I talked to my friend earlier today, and there was a realization. I can still clearly hear the voice of my mom saying "You are a hard loser." She told me not to cry whenever I fail or lose in a game because I used to be an athlete. I used to compete. And she said it is not what champions do—to cry when they lose or fail. And she said that's what losers and quitters do. So that stuck with me.

Then I shared with my friend a story from when I was in sixth grade—when I joined a pageant and was completely embarrassed. That's why I can still vividly remember it. My mom was the one who pushed me to join this pageant. And when I was dropped from the Top 10, or when I wasn't picked to move on to the Top 5, she said something along the lines that the competition was biased, that the competition was totally sabotaged. That I was supposed to be in the Top 5 and that I deserve to be there.

She’s always like this. She would blame others if she didn’t get what she wanted—she’d blame the weather, the equipment, or a person. Not just that, she’s a very superstitious person. She has her own rituals to do before and after a competition, or something else, for good luck, I suppose.

I never really cared whether I won or lost the game, but whenever I lost, there was always a sense of panic and fear because I knew my mother would blame either me or something else. And ever since then, I started thinking that maybe I was really a sore loser, that I never took losing in a good way, that I always saw it as weakness.

I remember that when I lost or failed, I would get angry, upset, and guilty. That’s why I never skipped a training day, never complained. I always made sure I was prepared and that I had everything I needed to win. I sometimes reflect it onto others. When they lose, I would tell them that they didn’t do it well, or that they were simply not good that’s why they failed. Looking back now, it gives me an ick. I feel horrible thinking about how I reacted and how I acted.

And then I realized: I wasn't the sore loser after all. I was just simply a child listening to her mother's advice—I was just a normal child, feeling genuinely disappointed, upset, or down after failing or losing a game. It wasn't me. There was nothing wrong with me. She was the hard loser from the start.
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Note: I do not own the artwork in this piece. Credit to the rightful artist.

Freedom Feels Like Grief
by Frances Dew

It’s been a while since I last wrote down my thoughts, maybe because I didn’t know how to organize them for a while. And honestly, my mind is still a bit messy. I cut off my mom, my only sister, and my dad. This is the third week since I cut them off. I’m starting to feel a little more at ease now, because the first week was really hard. I felt like I was doing something wrong, like things just weren’t sitting right. Then it slowly dawned on me that maybe I was just shedding all the long-term trauma and pain, and now I’m actually… free.

I know it’s not the best way to solve things, and I know this isn’t fixing anything with my family. But I also know that in this way, I’m finally able to focus on fixing myself, for who I am and who I’m still able to become. As for my family, it’s complicated. But I believe that at the right time, and in the right headspace, maybe I can face it and try to fix things. Right now though, my priority has to be me.

It sounds selfish, but I need this. I’m not getting any younger to keep brushing things off and just being the obedient child. I think this is the right time for me to learn how to be independent, to choose myself for once, and to grow into someone healthier and stronger than I’ve ever allowed myself to be.

Honestly, even though I’ve been telling myself I was free, my body didn’t seem to understand it right away. My mind was trying to be strong and sure about the decision, but inside, everything still felt shaken. It was like I had opened a door I had kept locked for years, and all the feelings I had pushed down started rushing out at once. I didn’t just feel it emotionally, I felt it in my chest, in my breathing, in the way my body wouldn’t fully relax. That’s when the dreams started, and I realized that even in my sleep, I was still trying to make sense of everything I had walked away from.

In my first week of separating from my family, there was this weird air around me, like something was constantly suffocating me. I felt it in my body too, my muscles were always tight, like I couldn’t fully relax no matter how hard I tried. It was like my body was holding onto something my mind hadn’t fully processed yet.

I remember my first dream during that time. It was about my mom, but she was the exact opposite of how things usually feel in real life. In the dream, she was kind and sensitive, and she was trying to save me from something. There was another woman there who was hurting me, and I was shouting at her. I kept yelling that my mom wasn’t going to believe her lies, that my mom would protect me.

Then I woke up, but I didn’t wake up quietly. I was woken up by my own voice, shouting the exact same phrase I had been yelling in my dream. It took me a moment to realize where I was.

It stayed with me the whole day, that strange feeling of my mind trying to hold onto a version of my mom I wished I had, while my body was still carrying all the fear and pain I’ve been trying to move away from. And at that point I realized this wouldn't be an easy out, this freedom feels like grief. There's a lot to unpack and a lot to process but at least I am doing it on my own.

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Note: I do not own the artwork in this piece. Credit to the rightful artist.

The Cost of My Own Joy
by Frances Dew

I was never competing with you. I was just begging for you to look at me—really look at me. A little validation, a little appreciation… that’s all I ever needed. But you couldn’t give me even that. You were too selfish, too threatened by my independence. You mocked my small wins, my tiny sparks of happiness, as if tearing them down would somehow keep me in place.

You were hurt because you never bought these things for me when I was young. You always said it was because we didn’t have money—and I don’t blame you for that. But did it ever cross your mind that buying these small things now is my way of healing? That each little purchase fills a void I’ve carried for years, bringing a bit of light into the darkness I grew up with?

How could you be so cruel?

People will say I’m ungrateful, that I’m spoiled. But they didn’t hear the way you mocked me. They didn’t feel the gaslighting, the discouragement, the way you made me feel small with every snarky comment you disguised as “concern.”

And tell me—how bad was I for buying something for myself? Was it a sin to finally give myself the things I once only dreamed of? Why did it bother you so much to see me happy in ways you never allowed me to be?

Why did a simple treat, a small reward, a tiny piece of joy become something you had to criticize? Why did my healing look like arrogance to you? Why did my self-care feel like an attack?

I wasn’t trying to show off. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was trying to patch the holes you left in me. I was trying to give myself the gentleness I never got. I was trying to feel, even for a moment, what it’s like to not live in scarcity—emotionally, mentally, and yes, even materially.

You called it unnecessary. You called it wasteful. You made me feel guilty for wanting anything at all.
But you never understood that to me, these small things weren’t about the object—they were about the child inside me who never had the chance.

So tell me again… what exactly did I do wrong?
What crime did I commit by choosing myself for once?

Because if buying something that makes me feel whole is wrong in your eyes, then maybe the real problem was never the purchase—it was that I finally stopped waiting for you to care.

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Note: I do not own the artwork in this piece. Credit to the rightful artist.

The Making of a Modern Mole
by Frances Dew

I feel like I’m slowly ruining my life by choosing to stay at home as much as possible. Today, I went to the supermarket to buy a few essentials, but the moment I stepped inside, something shifted. I found myself hovering around aisles, panicking for no clear reason. The place was packed because of the upcoming festivities, and I didn’t anticipate that kind of crowd. Suddenly, the air felt thin, the space seemed to shrink, and everything inside me tightened.

I got irritated, anxious, and breathless—all within a single minute. And yet I stayed there for almost two hours, forcing myself to get through it even though every second felt overwhelming. When I finally made it home, everything instantly calmed. The air felt warm and cozy, the silence comforting instead of suffocating. It was like stepping into a safe bubble.

And the truth is: I know this isn’t healthy. I’m becoming more and more afraid to go outside. Even when I have to, it takes so much planning and courage just to step out the door. What’s strange is that I wasn’t always like this. Sure, I’ve always been a homebody, but I used to be able to go out, hang out with friends, meet new people, and still feel fine. Now I feel like a mole—sensitive to the light and retreating deeper into the dark.

I’m not even sure when this shift began. It feels sudden, like I blinked and something inside me changed. And the weirdest part? I feel both good and bad about it. I’ve read enough to know this can be a real issue, something serious I shouldn’t ignore. But lately, I’ve also caught myself giggling alone, enjoying my own company, dancing, feeling confident—just within these four walls and a roof. It’s strange to feel safest and most alive in a space that’s also keeping me small.

Maybe this is my way of coping, or maybe it’s a sign that something deeper is happening—something I’ve pushed aside for too long. I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’m starting to realize that I can’t stay hidden forever. I want to feel brave again, to breathe outside these walls without my chest tightening. I know it will take time, and maybe a few shaky steps, but I’m hoping that someday soon I can find a balance—where home feels safe, but the world outside doesn’t feel like a threat. For now, I’m just trying to understand myself, one moment at a time.

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Note: I do not own the artwork in this piece. Credit to the rightful artist.

The Shocking Reason I Prefer Being Liked Over Being Loved
by Frances Dew

I believe liking and loving someone are two completely different experiences. You can love a person deeply yet not always like their habits, choices, or personality. And you can like someone sincerely without ever developing romantic love.

Love often grows out of attraction, emotional connection, or shared experiences. It can arrive suddenly or develop over time. But staying in love is far more challenging. There’s no guaranteed formula, no scientific method, and no “medicine” that can make people stay in love forever. Love can fade, change, or transform into something different.

Liking, on the other hand, is about genuine appreciation. When you like someone, you enjoy who they are as a person—their personality, their values, the way they make you feel. You can like someone even in the absence of romantic love. And sometimes, liking a person is what keeps a relationship steady when the intensity of love fluctuates.

However, liking someone doesn’t automatically lead to love. You may admire and enjoy someone’s company, but that doesn’t guarantee romantic attachment.

This is why, in many ways, liking someone feels more powerful than loving them. Love can be emotional, unpredictable, and sometimes fragile. But liking someone—truly enjoying who they are—can be the stronger foundation that lasts, even when love is complicated.

Love isn’t limited to romantic relationships; it extends to family as well. We often don’t admit it, but we do love and care for our family members. However, that doesn’t always mean we like them. In fact, there are moments when we love our family out of responsibility, history, or blood ties, yet we don’t necessarily enjoy their personalities, choices, or behaviors.

When I say I like someone, I simply appreciate certain qualities they have: the way they think, the way they treat others, or the way they carry themselves. Liking someone, for me, is about recognizing traits that resonate with who I am and what I value.

I once heard the quote, “We like because, and we love despite.”
For many people, it makes perfect sense: we like someone because of their qualities, but we love them despite their flaws. However, for me, it works the other way around. I feel that love can come from instinct, obligation, or emotional attachment, but liking requires genuine admiration. I can love someone because they are family or because we share a bond, yet I may not truly like who they are as a person.

In today’s generation, where attention spans are short, emotions change quickly, and relationships often feel temporary, liking someone has become even more meaningful. Love can become cruel, inconsistent, or even insignificant over time. It can fade or lose its intensity. But liking someone—truly appreciating who they are—holds a different kind of power.

Liking may not guarantee that love will grow, but the feeling of being seen, accepted, and respected for who I am means far more to me. Liking carries a sense of choice, intention, and clarity, while love sometimes arrives uninvited or becomes complicated. And in many ways, that makes liking someone feel stronger, more stable, and more genuine than love itself.

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Note: I do not own the artwork in this piece. Credit to the rightful artist.

i was forced to grow up too fast and become the independent daughter.

simply exist.

I don't talk too much these days, but I think a lot. There's a version of me that I buried quietly.
Life kept pushing me to be tougher than I actually felt. Others see me going about my life—working, smiling, and doing things. However, they don't see the part of me that’s gradually disappearing. I miss who I was before everything felt so heavy, before silence became more comfortable than conversation.