I once had a parka that was handed down to me from my father. To make it mine, I sewed on a Bones Brigade patch. Powell Peralta. Tony Hawk. My love for skateboard legends. That patch said something about me, about who I was. That parka meant a lot.

And then one day, it was gone.

I searched everywhere. Asked my mother. At first, she denied. Then admitted – she had thrown it away.
To her, it was “falling apart.”
To me, it was me.
Don’t make such a fuss, she ignored my protests. 

Growing up, everything about me had to fit her self-image.
What I said, what I wore, what I felt, even what I loved – it all had to appear good.
Not be real.
Be presentable.

She once told me she’d never do to her children what was done to her.
But maybe what she did was worse.
Because it came dressed as love.
They call it protection. They call it care.
But when parenting becomes performance, it’s really about control, about objectification.
And children become something to be managed. Curated. Polished. Silenced.This was never about jackets or socks.
It’s about autonomy. And how quietly, how invisibly, it gets crushed.