My First Heartbreak
On that heartbreaking day, I understood that sometimes things change because they just do and I don't always get to choose when or how.
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I write about the quiet, complicated, and often contradictory parts of life—especially identity, home, and this new chapter of becoming a parent. This space is where I share honest storytelling, personal reflections, and moments that don’t always make it into casual conversations. If that sounds like your kind of thing, I’m so glad you’re here.
One of my earliest memories is playing with my mom’s hair every day after she came home from work. She had the most beautiful hair in the world - long, black, and thick, in my view anyways. I must have been four or five at the time, still living in the small apartment my parents purchased through their company benefits in the late 1990s.
My mom would drop me off at kindergarten in the morning, and in the afternoon, I’d ride in the back seat of my great aunt’s bicycle back to the apartment, and she’d stay with me until my mom got home. I’d patiently wait in the living room while cartoons played on the TV. The moment my mom walked through the door was when all the fun really began.
As soon as she walked through the door and settled in, I’d ask her to sit on the couch and let her hair down. I’d grab my little stool, climb up behind the couch, and reach for her long, thick hair, ready to try out the new styles I’d seen on my classmates that day. I’d section her hair in different ways and tie each part with a colorful band. Sometimes, it was a horizontal split. Sometimes vertical. While she sat patiently, my mom would ask me about my day at kindergarten and what I had for lunch that day. I’d respond mindlessly while trying to focus on “my craft” of doing her hair.
I’d play with her hair for a long time before finally letting her go to prepare dinner - or at least that’s how I remember it. In the morning, I was the one sitting down while my mom did my hair. But in the afternoon, I loved “being the adult” in the room. It became part of our routine that I looked forward to every day.
One afternoon, I waited in the living room for her to come home just like any other day. But this time, she was a little later than usual. When she finally walked in, she looked like a different person. Her long hair was gone. Instead, it was a neat, chin-length cut that stopped just above her ears. I looked at her, and I froze. A few seconds later, I burst into tears.
It felt like my whole world was falling apart. I didn’t have the words yet, but I felt betrayed and heartbroken for the first time in my life. Her long, beautiful hair hadn’t just been hers—it felt like mine, too. Through my sobs, I asked her why she hadn’t told me, why she didn’t ask me before cutting it. She held me in her arms and said gently that summer was coming, and her long hair was making her too warm. It was that simple. But I didn’t believe her. I was so angry. Deep down, I blamed myself. Had I played with it too much? Was this my fault?
When I ran my fingers through her hair, I didn’t think about how it would be gone one day. It felt like something that would always be there - the quiet ritual of those late afternoons of me standing on the stool and her sitting down and letting her hair down. But that evening, when it wasn’t there anymore, I came to realize that my mother didn’t just belong to me. I couldn’t have put it into words then, but I sensed that not all her choices revolved around me. After that day, something shifted. As hard as it was for a kid, I began to understand that even though she was my mother and loved me deeply, she was also her own person and had her own desires and wants.
That heartbreaking day, I grew up a little more.
I think I moved on quickly, the way children often do. My mom and I had many other rituals between us after that as I grew up, like going to the park on weekends, reading at coffee shops, and watching movies together. I was only reminded of that moment once in a while, whenever I came across an older photo of my mom with her long hair while flipping through our old albums. Each time, my heart still ached for my younger self.
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From then on, my mom never grew her hair longer than her neckline. It was the end of an era. Many years later, when I became an adult, I’d sometimes ask her to try growing it out again because I still remembered how beautiful she looked with long hair. She’d give it a serious try but always gave up once it reached that awkward in-between length, too long to leave alone but not long enough to tie up. Over the years, she did all sorts of things with her short hair: perming, styling, even dyeing. But she never grew it out the way I remembered from my childhood.
I try to imagine what I’d feel if my future toddler wanted to play with my hair every day for half an hour the moment I walked through the door, probably already exhausted. I blame my mother a little less for cutting her hair short for good, even though she still insists today that she only cut her hair for the warm, humid summer.
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I write about the quiet, complicated, and often contradictory parts of life—especially identity, home, and this new chapter of becoming a parent. If you’d like to support this kind of honest storytelling and receive more personal reflections like this, consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support helps keep this space going and means so much to me.
If you enjoyed reading this post, you might also enjoy some of my other reflections on childhood memories and quiet moments of growing up:
This Week’s Tiny Thoughts
On Saturday, we visited Ruth Asawa: A Retrospective at SF MoMA. I was completely in awe of her signature hanging looped wire sculptures. How did she manage to transform something as rigid as wire into forms that feel airy, fluid, almost as if they’re melting into their surroundings?
Ah, the little us—ever so innocent, ever so naive. I have many memories of early childhood that gave me the pangs because I, too, had my fair share of heartbreaks. And looking now at my children, I know I cannot spare them either from any. It is all part of being human. Ultimately, we own only ourselves.