Shadows of the Mind

Weight of Expectation

Weight Of Expectation

Every morning, I wake with a weight sitting in my chest, something heavy and pressing, much like an anchor to my soul. It's not getting out of bed or the daily chores ahead of me; rather, it's expectation and a burden of a future one sees but is unsure of attaining. My parents have always believed in me; their faith is like a lighthouse that uses its light to shine before me through a stormy sea. I sometimes, however, think that this belief of theirs could be more of a burden than a blessing. They see someone who can do no wrong, who's destined for greatness. In that mirror, all I see is just someone who is flawed, unsure, and mortally afraid not to measure up.

They've done so much. They've given up on their own dreams in order to invest all that time, money, and hope into me. Any little success on my part attests to their grit and determination, and any failure on my part feels like a breach of trust. Oh, they might not create opportunities but certainly every possible advantage, and with all these advantages, every day there is pressure I have to live up to. The stakes feel so high that sometimes I am caught wondering if I shall ever live up to it or if I'll turn out as no more than a disappointment.

I used to look up to them when I was younger, through big, admiring eyes. It's as if they had all the answers in the world, and nothing could faze them because there was always a way to do things right. Their strength, their wisdom, and their confidence inspired me not to be weak. Maybe at that time, I realized but didn't admit it to myself: that admiration grew into an unsaid contract between us. They believed in me, and I believed in their belief, until it became a weight I could hardly bear.

Now, as I've grown older, I'm starting to understand that maybe they don't see everything about me. They see accomplishments, smiles, and success. They never see the late nights afflicted with self-doubt, or the quiet, nagging fear that I might never quite live up to what they see in me. They don't see the times that I've stumbled and wanted to give up but pushed through anyway because I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing them.

Sometimes, I dream of being free with them. Sitting them down and telling them how scared I am. How every step I take is like walking on a tightrope, where down below there is nothing to catch my fall. Then their eyes, the hopefulness in my mother's eyes, the stoic expression on my father's face, and the words get caught in my throat. Even the thought of another's disappointment expressed in their eyes, silently, is too painful to bear. As if their silent sadness and wordless disappointment were enough.

So it all stays inside, kept in some corner of my mind that I seldom visit. I keep pushing myself harder and harder, never resting because I have to live up to the image they have envisioned for me. Sometimes I convince myself that if I just work a little more, if I just keep going, then maybe I will become the person they think I already am. But deep down I know that whatever I do, the fear of failing them will always be there—a lurking shadow ready to pounce at any moment and throw my perceived world apart.

If I could, I wish I could tell them that I'm not perfect, that I make mistakes, and I'm afraid. But as it is, I keep lugging this weight by taking it one step at a time, only hoping that one day I will face them without this dreadful fear of letting them down. And maybe that day will come, or maybe it won't. But until that moment comes, I will continue to try, strive to be who they believe I can be, all while battling the fear of being not enough.

—Lady_Perrila