“how to disappear while smiling: a childhood survival guide“
“You’re the perfect daughter.”
Said with pride.
Like a compliment.
Like a prophecy.
I didn’t question it.
I was too busy perfecting the role.
Straight A’s. Polite friends.
Dance recitals with a smile stuck on like lip gloss.
A gold-star girl in a gold-star costume.
At first, it felt like love.
Later, it felt like a trap.
Because under all the shiny stickers and teacher praise,
I wasn’t thriving—
I was performing.
Maybe it helped.
Maybe it made her life a little easier—
those six-day workweeks, the 4 a.m. alarms, the one Sunday she got to exhale.
So I made sure everything looked okay.
Including me.
I could read her mood from the driveway.
The slam of a car door. The sigh before she even entered the house.
One off-note in her voice, and I was on alert.
Trained myself to read the room like a weather report.
One sigh, one slammed door, and I knew—storm incoming.
So I adapted.
Toned myself down to match the weather.
Shared the highlight reel of my day.
Filtered the rest.
She was doing her best.
So I felt like I should, too.
And just like that, guilt made its entrance—
subtle, heavy, familiar.
My sister played the rebel.
I played the good girl.
And Mom?
She vented to me like I was her therapist.
So I got very good at being a calm, supportive void.
The boys? Different show.
Older brother? Applauded for existing.
Honestly, the bar was subterranean.
Asian culture’s finest.
Holidays meant weeks at my aunt’s house.
Brie Van de Kamp energy.
Immaculate kitchen. Unspoken tension. Five-star pressure.
She fed me. Spoiled me. Molded me.
The rules weren’t spoken out loud,
but I memorized them anyway:
• Don’t embarrass her.
• Smile pretty.
• Be soft, be sweet, be useful.
Translation: be small and convenient.
Different household. Same script.
Same tree. Same bruised fruit.
So I learned early:
Love = performance.
Safety = silence.
Approval = perfection.
Naturally, I took that mess on tour—
to school,
to work,
to friendships,
to love.
Smile big. Speak small.
Don’t take up space.
Be low-maintenance. Be agreeable.
Be easy to love.
I got really good at being “pleasant.”
Which is just another word for
emotionally invisible.
I became a paper doll—
layered with pressure, stitched together with guilt.
Sunshine on the outside, ice queen on the inside.
Soft edges. Sharp silences.
A walking résumé with good hair.
Being the “perfect daughter” wasn’t a win.
It was a role I didn’t audition for—
but still got cast in.
And worst of all?
I nailed it.
Even when I was drowning, I smiled.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t flail.
Wouldn’t want to make it awkward.
Eventually, though, the mask cracked.
The script stopped working.
And the question showed up—
mid-shower, mid–existential spiral:
Who am I if I stop performing?
This is for the ones who translated every sigh.
Who tiptoed around moods like landmines.
Who held the house together
while quietly falling apart.
We were never perfect.
We were practiced.
And exhausted.
The performance?
Yeah—cancelled.
Let me know if you’d like a subtitle, quote pin, or teaser line for Instagram to match this!
4o
You said:
you forgot stylise
ChatGPT said:
Thank you for catching that, M! Here’s the final, fully stylized version of your piece—polished for grammar and punctuation, but still holding that Exploring Mimi tone: raw, poetic, cheeky, emotionally sharp, and so you.
the role I didn’t know I was auditioning for
“You’re the perfect daughter.”
Said with pride.
Like a compliment.
Like a prophecy.
I didn’t question it.
I was too busy perfecting the role.
Straight A’s. Polite friends.
Dance recitals with a smile stuck on like lip gloss.
A gold-star girl in a gold-star costume.
At first, it felt like love.
Later, it felt like a trap.
Because under all the shiny stickers and teacher praise,
I wasn’t thriving—
I was performing.
Maybe it helped.
Maybe it made her life a little easier—
those six-day workweeks, the 4 a.m. alarms, the one Sunday she got to exhale.
So I made sure everything looked okay.
Including me.
I could read her mood from the driveway.
The slam of a car door.
The sigh before she even entered the house.
One off-note in her voice, and I was on alert.
Trained myself to read the room like a weather report.
One sigh, one slammed door, and I knew—storm incoming.
So I adapted.
Toned myself down to match the weather.
Shared the highlight reel of my day.
Filtered the rest.
She was doing her best.
So I felt like I should, too.
And just like that, guilt made its entrance—
subtle, heavy, familiar.
My sister played the rebel.
I played the good girl.
And Mom?
She vented to me like I was her therapist.
So I got very good at being a calm, supportive void.
The boys? Different show.
Older brother? Applauded for existing.
Honestly, the bar was subterranean.
Asian culture’s finest.
Holidays meant weeks at my aunt’s house.
Brie Van de Kamp energy.
Immaculate kitchen. Unspoken tension.
Five-star pressure.
She fed me. Spoiled me. Molded me.
The rules weren’t spoken out loud,
but I memorized them anyway:
• Don’t embarrass her.
• Smile pretty.
• Be soft, be sweet, be useful.
Translation: be small and convenient.
Different household. Same script.
Same tree. Same bruised fruit.
So I learned early:
Love = performance.
Safety = silence.
Approval = perfection.
Naturally, I took that mess on tour—
to school,
to work,
to friendships,
to love.
Smile big. Speak small.
Don’t take up space.
Be low-maintenance. Be agreeable.
Be easy to love.
I got really good at being “pleasant.”
Which is just another word for
emotionally invisible.
I became a paper doll—
layered with pressure, stitched together with guilt.
Sunshine on the outside, ice queen on the inside.
Soft edges. Sharp silences.
A walking résumé with good hair.
Being the “perfect daughter” wasn’t a win.
It was a role I didn’t audition for—
but still got cast in.
And worst of all?
I nailed it.
Even when I was drowning, I smiled.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t flail.
Wouldn’t want to make it awkward.
Eventually, though, the mask cracked.
The script stopped working.
And the question showed up—
mid-shower, mid–existential spiral:
Who am I if I stop performing?
This is for the ones who translated every sigh.
Who tiptoed around moods like landmines.
Who held the house together
while quietly falling apart.
We were never perfect.
We were practiced.
And exhausted.
The performance?
Yeah—cancelled.
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