Acceptance
My mother said “A man should love and give in to the woman, even when she is being unreasonable. My husband always gives in to me, and I can be very unreasonable.”
She shared this perspective in response to someone recounting an argument, framed as a debate over “who was at fault.” What struck me about her words wasn’t just the candor but the rare insight they revealed. I was surprised by her awareness of the demands she placed on her relationship — and, more importantly, her deep appreciation for the way her husband accepted and loved her, even at her most “unreasonable.”
It made me think about the conflicts we all face in relationships — those moments of miscommunication or misunderstanding that leave us feeling unheard and unseen. Statistically, these moments often lead to separations; more than half of relationships don’t last.
What goes on in a relationship of this length? How did it even last this long? A pertinent question when we look at the data. While it varies country to country, by age range, and whether it is a marriage or otherwise, the mean ranges from 17 months to 4 years. It’s kinda sad. “What happened to the promises of ‘the rest of our lives’?” the romantic in me laments.
Growing up, my parents’ arguments had a rhythm. Voices were raised, each fighting to have their perspective validated, each striving — at times stubbornly — to be “right.” If there was no agreement, my mother would sulk — not in a quiet, reflective way, but actively. She would choose to ignore my dad, making her discontent clear. After a little time, he’d go to her — he always went to her — to soothe and “give-in” by saying the words he obviously knew she needed to hear. Words like, “darling, don’t be angry. I’m sorry I made you so upset.” He would do it with sincerity and love in this voice. No passive-aggression. No “fine, you’re right, OK now?” or “you win” or “have it your way”. She’d pout a little bit more — you know, just to make him earn it a bit — he’d laugh teasingly and she’d laugh and the tension was over. She’d then proceed to make his favourite food for dinner. Or some other obtusely loving act that would only be obvious to him. And at times, to the wide-eyed kids looking at this unfold (we lived in close quarters) she’d say “Your father is so irritating!” with a sheepish, affectionate smile on her face and he’d smile back at her with indulgence, warmth and love.
He only apologised for wrong doing if he believed he did something wrong. What he was sorry for was how he made her feel in the way he tried to get his point across. It was what she needed — to have her feelings validated, and to be shown she was loved, accepted and wouldn’t be abandoned. The sulk was, after all, only a defence mechanism, a defiance in the face of her fear — steeling herself so rejection wouldn’t hurt as much. On her part, I’ve never heard her admit wrong, but I’ve seen her double her efforts through acts of care when she has, indeed, been wrong. And that’s what has value for him, to be cared for — possibly a residual insecurity from having been raised in a neglectful home. This was their dynamic. A dance that works for them, that they’ve figured out through trial and error — only made possible with mutual respect, and valuing the relationship enough to stay and figure it out together.
My mother is not given to sentimentality or emotional vulnerability. She sees it as a weakness. Abandoned at an orphanage by her father when she was just a toddler, she spent the few years there in Dickensian poverty and neglect. Brought home around the age of 6, when he deemed her “old enough to be useful”, she did the housework and looked after her sisters and brothers, taking over the maternal role — her mother confined to a wheelchair as a result of her husband’s physical abuse. A few years after, he sold her to a childless couple from Taiwan. Refusing to go, she acted out so much, the couple eventually returned her and took her younger sister instead. That left her with a guilt that I only discovered when I was in high school. She’d spent her adult life looking for this lost sister and eventually found her over twenty years later. In the intervening time at home, she watched her father continue to assault her wheel-chair bound mother, and on her death, packed her bags, left the country and bussed her way from northern Malaysia to Singapore to start a new life alone, with nothing but a few dollars in her pocket. She was 17 years old.
This was (and still is) my mother’s mythology. We all have ours, and it shapes us in ways we may not even be aware of. She didn’t live in a time when we talked about trauma, conflict resolutions, self-reflection, growth mindset or somatic mindfulness. Neither did my father, whose own upbringing was poor, and neglectful. His own father was a polygamist, with three wives, two of whom were sisters. There were too many children, dad being number 13. There wasn’t always enough food. Certainly never enough attention. No supervision. He ran wild, even joining a local teen gang to belong, running errands in and out of opium dens for triads to earn some money. They were a generation of people who just “got on with it.”
But I’ve realized that they didn’t just “get on with it.” What they did was far more intentional — and, in its own way, profound.
They chose each other, for the qualities they both valued in the other. My mother was tough, resilient, a risk-taker — the kind of person who had balls of steel, willing to do the things that scared her. She was also loyal, and quietly kind. Neither of those latter qualities she’d reveal to anyone, not even my dad, but he could see it — because he bothered to look. She had a deep mistrust of people and their intentions, which his open-ness to see the best in others and his consistency helped soften.
He was a bit of a softie, driven to do what was fair, just and right — a quality she both hated and loved but understood it was ultimately a good one. It was something she struggled with, and knew it balanced her out. He was very quick to temper when things don’t go his way. Her sanguineness in the face of setbacks and disappointments was a balm to that. He was loyal and was a genuinely filial son — his care for his mother not borne from duty or obligation alone, but from love and understanding. My grandmother’s objections to his choice was overt, active and damaging — often creating conflict — believing to the day she died my mother was not good enough for her son. Yet he remained steadfast in his choice, never allowing her objections to overshadow his commitment to my mother. On her part, my mother extended her respect and care for my grandmother with no expectation of reciprocity — focusing instead on the quality she valued, trusting that my father had a capacity to look after her and their kids with the same steadfastness.
In other words, they made a decision on their person. They chose each other fully aware of each other’s shortcomings and the external challenges. Yet they chose each other. Lately, I’ve seen many social media posts saying this same thing — love is a choice. If I didn’t have them as parents, I would have just chalked it down to privileged babble. But here it was. They chose each other every day. Even in moments when walking away might have seemed easier, even when love felt hard to find in the midst of conflict, they chose to stay. To work through the messiness together. They were building something — a life, for the rest of their lives. And decided this was the person they wanted to do it with. And they never took their eyes off the ball.
And they understood ‘this too shall pass’. And they chose to accept and respect each other as full individuals, warts and all. Fashion designer Tom Ford, who was with his partner Richard Buckley for 35 years, once shared his advice for lasting relationships. He said: “First of all you have to respect each other. So if the person you’re with is someone you respect, whom you believe has a great heart and a great soul, as good a heart and soul as you will ever find, don’t ever leave them. Because you will never find anyone better. So even if you have an argument, have a fight, and there are moments that maybe.. even years, that may be tough; I don’t mean an extended period of years — I mean, we all go through different moments in life — stick it out, work at it, as long as that person is someone you respect, and admire and you are kindred spirits. Because you won’t find a better one. So hold on.” I believe that sums up the way they deepened their relationship.
Of course, we are not talking about anything abusive — merely everyday difficulties that stem from insecurities, perhaps self-doubt of our worth, fear that we are not loved, our monsters coming out to play. We are all guilty of this. It isn’t something some of us like to admit — that we are sometimes on our worst behaviour because we are at our most vulnerable. What the peevishness amounts to is often a cry for reassurance, a plea to be told or shown that we are loved, for all our faults, flaws and humanity. Respect the other’s mythology, trust they are trying to be better, for you and themselves, and accept their humanity as you accept yours.
No performance. No perfection. Isn’t that what we all long for in our emotional lives? To be loved — not for what we do, but simply for who we are?
Simply because. How joyous would that be.