<p>I understand that posting my essay on here is very risky but I would really appreciate feedback.
This essay is about a personal experience. </p>
<p>In my sophomore year of high school, my mother had a miscarriage. This was the first time I had been so close to death, but it was certainly not the first for my mother. For years, my mother has been plagued with low iron in her body and the pains from a merciless ulcer. On top of that, my mother has fallen prisoner to racial inequality and homesickness. I would always question why my mother took so many pills, why we made so many visits to the hospital, and why my mother cried so often.
I cannot write with words the pain I felt from seeing my mother cry, scream, and cry again. Tissues were always scattered across the carpet. She cried from physical pain and a psychological agony that never ended. My comforting would never help, placing my hands on her shoulders and holding her with my arms had no effect. How devastating it felt to touch someone, but never really touch them. It eventually grew tiring, and I grew callous. I ignored the cries that pierced the atmosphere and lived in a separate world, one with soundproof walls and emotionless airs. I could never feel empathy for her but I later knew no sympathy either. I was happy with the life I had, I was physically and mentally happy. I knew no misfortune. Why was my mother always crying, why was she sad with her life? The miscommunication and the misunderstanding had created a division so strong that I no longer knew who my mother was.
But I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. I knew nothing then, but I know everything now. The tears that bled from my mother’s eyes were not from weakness, but strength held in the purest form. She was not a wall that was broken, but a wall that broke itself, over and over again, in order to rebuild its foundation. This year, my mother cried again and I blankly comforted her, expecting no change. However, she held my hand and thanked me, telling me that my words gave her strength and she stopped crying. All those years, all the comforting, all the hugs, everything I believed was useless, had actually helped her.
She admitted that if I had not been there, she never would have been able to survive what she did. Eventually, I found myself crying. It is ironic. In those tears, I found no misery nor anguish but happiness. I no longer held my head higher than my mother’s but toward the floor. The lens my tears had built helped me see the pain my mom went through. Physical pain from bleeding excessively, inactivity from low iron, silent oppression, and the despair from being in a house and not a home. My mom felt all of these, while I felt nothing. I was ignorant to whom my mother really was, what she went through, and the little but large effect I had made in her life.
The ignorance is no longer embarrassing and the experience isn’t painful, but it is now part of me and I am thankful for what I have. I have grown more sympathetic and understanding. I now know how to humble and what I want to do with the life I have. I want to continue helping others both physically and mentally. I know that just hugging people and verbal encouragement is not enough to make a difference, but I will learn other ways to help people. I will be like my mother and not only become a strong wall, but help others build foundations to stand on. I want to see tears of happiness, not only from her, or from me, but from others. Kindness and perseverance is what my mom taught me and I will continue both. I will surpass all physical and mental limits life places in my path and help others do the same. Life is too difficult to battle alone, that is why God made Adam a companion. That is why God made my mom a daughter.</p>
<p>All and any feedback is appreciated! Thanks in advance :)</p>