Aging Like An Asian Tiger Mom
“I stared at my then 42-year-old ATM, it felt like I was seeing her face for the first time in my life—it was flawless, glowing, not a single wrinkle, pimple, sunspot, or mark. Wow, my mother’s skin was beautiful. I wanted my face to look like hers.”
They say nothing compares to a mother’s love—I’m not a mother, so I don’t know what it feels like to love like a mother—but I have a mother, so I understand what it feels like to receive that motherly love.
My childhood and adolescence were a dichotomy of prodigious repetition and achievement, all built on a foundation of discipline and rules. Repetition creates habits, habits are practiced, and practice makes perfect—and perfect is what makes an ATM happy. So it all started very early for me—from school hours, to after-school activities, sports, tutors, piano lessons, chores, home-cooked meals, and TV, everything had a rule and schedule—including an early introduction to a proper skin care regimen that no 10-year-old child should ever be responsible for.
It was a brainwashing of sort (the good kind) to ingrain routine and discipline into my life, so that I (and my skin) could excel. This was my ATM’s love language, and it was how she loved her family.
The problem with this downstream model is that most children rebel when parents attempt to control all facets of their offspring’s lives and remove all the normal fun that kids are supposed to have. As a result of this rigorous curriculum of habits and practices, I didn’t want to do anything my ATM told me to do. But I was also scared AF. Discipline moderated by fear is real – and only Asian immigrant children understand this, but a pissed ATM will destroy everything and anything that stands in her way of control, perfection, and victory.
See, my mother was the epitome of all ATM’s—her days started at 4AM and bedtime was 10PM sharp. During her 18-hour days, she managed to work full-time, home-cook breakfast and dinner for our family of 4, packed school lunches for my sister and I, and chauffeured us to-and-from all our sports practices, music lessons, and private tutors. And I swear she also cleaned the house every day, and then managed to spend 30-minutes every night massaging all kinds of creams and potions all over her face. My ATM was the master-ruler of the very-organized Cha Kingdom, and no one dared to challenge her ways.
I was left with no choice but to rebel in secrecy. At the brave age of 10 years, I’d wear my mom’s lipstick in the house when she wasn’t home because I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up until I was 18, and I’d get my dad to secretly buy me a McDonald’s Happy Meal because we weren’t allowed to eat fast food. And instead of spending the 10-minutes before bed mimicking my ATM’s face routine, I sat in my bathroom with the water running and spent that time writing in my 10-year-old diary about how much I hated the skin care chore.
From the outside, I always followed the visible rules and schedules, brought home straight-A’s, did all the after-school stuff, and made sure my chores got done—but I broke whatever rule I could get away with, and neglected one of the best disciplines my ATM tried to instill in me.
When I turned 15, my body had already started to change, and skin was changing at rapid speeds. I had severely dry skin most of my life, and suddenly my face started turned into an active grease pit. The combination of flaking eczema skin with overly-active oil glands turned my face into a menu of fancy pimples—from pustules, to white heads, cysts, and deep under-grounders. Not only did this look awful, but it was painful. I was already in and out of the doctors and dermatologist’s office because of all my other pre-existing skin conditions, so I had a medicine cabinet full of concentrated creams and serums—none of which helped control the acne.
I was 16 and mortified of looking at myself in the mirror. My dermatologist told me to consider Accutane—the strongest prescription medication available to treat severe cases of cystic acne, strong enough to treat certain kinds of cancer—maybe it would help the acne subside, but it came with a laundry list of long-term side effects and risk of permanent damage to the skin. I was willing to try anything to get out of the pimple hell that was ruining my teenage life.
At the same time, I was also fighting with my ATM constantly about everything—my secret rebellions had blossomed into full-blown, “I’m your ATD (Asian Tiger Daughter), let’s see who roars louder!” mode. I was breaking all the rules, and only following the schedules that would help me get into college with a scholarship so I could get escape the ATM’s dungeon (I was still a smart rebel, thanks to my ATM).
Since I was still a minor and Accutane was like FDA-approved crack-cocaine for skin, I needed my ATM’s approval and signature to get the goods. With my head hung low, I asked my ATM for permission for the prescription. She said no. But it was one of the few times I recall my mom looking at me with genuine sadness and empathy (she mostly looked at me with anger during this stage of my life), and my ATM, on the brink of tears, begged me to try the skin care regimen she’d been forcing on me the last half decade. I was out of options—no ATM signature, no drugs, and lots of acne. Fine.
I resentfully allowed my mom to take me through a live demonstration of product application from aloe face wipes, to the Cetaphil cleanser, clay-like spot treatments, the toner, retinol, and moisturizer. It was a lot—or so it seemed like a lot. But as I stared at my then 42-year-old ATM, it felt like I was seeing her face for the first time in my life—it was flawless, glowing, not a single wrinkle, pimple, sunspot, or mark. Wow, my mother’s skin was beautiful. I wanted my face to look like hers.
The morning regimen involved different products, and she told me to eat more kimchi and fermented Korean foods, and to stop eating fast food and drinking soda. I did what I could—but I stuck to the face plan. The next 3 months were like boot camp—my ATM instructed, and I followed. Sure enough, my skin started to heal and regenerate. My face went from looking like a combination pizza to a pepperoni pizza in a matter of months – all because I was disciplined with my ATM’s skin care schedule.
Ever since I was 16, I’ve maintained some sort of skin care routine for my face and body, no exceptions. Even late nights, without regard to where I am, or who I’m with, I somehow manage to stumble into the bathroom and execute my face plan. The repetition really turned into a practiced habit, and that practice became second-nature, although not quite perfect, yet. What would I look like now without my ATM?
My mother is the boldest of ATM’s even today, though a bit softer in the expression of her love language—61-years-old and continues to be ruled by, and rules by discipline, overbearing love, and control, in her still-perfect, flawless skin, and all. And I love her for every bit of all of that—I wouldn’t be the woman in this skin today if it wasn’t for my ATM. #agelikeanATM