Picture me in the fourth grade — a little girl in a bubble vest, sobbing over a report card while eating chocolate. I had failed to get an A in one of my courses, and all my shame and disappointment came in a flurry of tears and an amplified sweet tooth. I can look back at this memory now and have a good chuckle, but even as a child, I always set high expectations for myself.
These lofty expectations, you see, have been the love and bain of my existence. Growing up, my dad always pushed me to do my best, and fed my (then) ambitions to become a civil engineer-humanitarian lawyer, who also animated for Disney. I had big dreams for myself, and I thought that this was great. To have a goal to work towards is a healthy and beneficial thing, especially if it’s something that is meaningful to you. Self-efficacy — the strength of one’s belief in one’s own ability to accomplish tasks or goals — is also critically important to actually accomplishing these goals.
However, while high self-expectations motivated me to put forth my best work, I developed a cycle of confirming my own self-worth, in the process. Each time my work was assessed, I believed it was an assessment of who I was as a person, and as my parents’ marriage deteriorated, I began setting expectations for myself that were out of my control, and assumed responsibilities that weren’t mine to bear.
I believed that I could hold my parents’ marriage together by being the ‘perfect daughter.’ I had put their happiness into my own hands, and I tried to reassure myself that doing enough good things would fix our broken family; but when my parents finally divorced, I was met with the crippling truth that it would never be enough. To me, this translated as, “I’ll never be enough.” Though it felt good to earn that little ounce of self-worth from doing good deeds, a wave of shame and guilt for not trying harder would come rushing after.
When I began to self-harm, I had slipped into a major depression that made me all the more susceptible to feelings of worthlessness. I believed that every cut would compensate for each one of my failures. But of course, cutting didn’t solve any of my problems, and only made me feel more ashamed and empty.
Each time my work was assessed, I believed it was an assessment of who I was as a person.
As I look at my surroundings, I realize that we live in a society that tells us that we need to be more than who we are. We hear that we’re not pretty enough, or muscular enough, or smart enough, and it hurts. It takes a lot of effort to reach that bar, and when we miss and come tumbling back down, it takes a lot more to get back up again.
Yes, oftentimes I still slip, and fall, and it takes awhile to stand up. But I am grateful for my faith, and amazing friends and family who tell me that I am enough, and support me the whole way through. My ambitions have changed, but I’ve learned to revel in the big accomplishments as well as the small, intimate ones of daily life. Over time, I’ve become better at recognizing what I can and can’t handle, and on a good day, I’ll even get a decent amount of sleep. Though it’s a bumpy slope, I am ever so slowly learning to become more content with who I am.
