Carving out a life of your own

I am just an echo of my parents

I had to pick a paint colour for my sitting room recently. I opted for a warm yellow and texted my sister (for she has a better eye for interiors) seeking her stamp of approval. It turned out the colour I’d chosen was the same one she has in her sitting room. This was not a huge surprise. Our homes look the same in a million ways. Walking into her house is just like being in mine and, though she’s long insisted I’ve copied her here, after the paint coincidence we came to the realisation that both of our homes simply echo the houses we grew up in. We have little individual style, it’s all been passed down from our mother.

My parents lead very different lives to those of their parents. My dad was raised by a nurse and a teacher who lived on a modest budget (I’ll always have the memory of my granny saving her old tights to use as food strainers, which even then felt a bit unsanitary). My mum grew up on a rural farm in Scotland. They both left home at eighteen and never returned. The life they built together was probably similar to that of their friends, but far from the way they were raised. It was uniquely theirs, my life is not. I have not strayed far from the template they provided me. That might be because it was a very nice life (privilege takes on many forms, but having a nice home life is right up there). It might also be because I don’t like change much.

You’re supposed to create your own path aren’t you? It’s natural for kids not to want to live exactly as their parents did. You leave home and you’re given the freedom to try on different costumes and see what fits. You might eventually meet a partner who comes from another background and together you create your own life together. One that looks similar to that of millions of others but is still uniquely your own. One where you take the parts of your childhood that gave you comfort and leave the rest. That seems eminently healthy, the kind of adult behaviour that a therapist would nod their head at (rather than scribbling furious notes about, which is always rather unnerving. But better than a guy I once saw who doodled cartoons throughout our sessions).