To My Cruel Expectations

You don’t understand what it feels like to live with the constant weight of expectation, to feel like your only worth is in how well you perform. You can’t possibly understand the pressure of knowing that every step, every success, every tiny achievement is not a moment of joy, but simply another box checked, another duty fulfilled, another way to keep everyone else satisfied. My parents, my friends, my peers, my teachers—they all expect greatness from me. And if I fall short? Then I am nothing. A failure. A disappointment.
I used to be happy. I think. But that happiness is long gone, and the world has moved on without me. I am stuck, frozen in place, unable to move forward, unable to grasp even the smallest flicker of joy. Every time I accomplish something, there is no celebration—only relief. Relief that I have met expectations. Relief that I am one step closer to escaping. Relief that, for just a little longer, I am still “good enough.”
Slowly, I’ve come to resent them all. My friends, my family, everyone.
They push me. They ignore how I feel. They judge me without understanding. They see my accomplishments, but they don’t see me. And the more I realize this, the more isolated I feel. I used to think I had people who cared, but now I know—I am alone.
So I work harder. I bury myself in tasks, because at least then, I have a purpose. At least then, I can pretend I am someone. But what happens when I fail? Who will I be then?
I will be nothing. Because that is all I am—the girl who is supposed to be the best. Without that, I am invisible. Because that’s all anyone has ever seen in me. That’s all they have ever wanted from me.
I just want to be free. Free from the judgment, the constant scrutiny, the suffocating pressure that never leaves my chest. I want to exist in a place where no one knows me, where I don’t have to prove myself, where I don’t have to constantly fight to be enough.
But I’m trapped in an endless tug-of-war. I want to be happy, but I am terrified of failing. And that fear—it outweighs everything. It consumes me. I push myself harder and harder, not because I want to, but because I have to. Because if I stop, if I slow down for even a second, I might fall. And if I fall, I don’t think I’ll be able to get back up.
So I close myself off. I work harder. I isolate myself from the people who care, because I don’t have time for them, because I am afraid they will see the cracks forming in the person they expect me to be. I lose myself in the cycle—fear, work, exhaustion, repeat. Deeper and deeper, I spiral down.
I want to give up. I want to leave this life behind. I want to let go of everything, just so I can breathe again.
Maybe then, I will finally understand what happiness feels like.