The Weight Of Expectations

Chapter Twelve

The Weight Of Expectations

"You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work in progress, simultaneously." - Sophia Bush

Expectations have always hung over me like a heavy cloud, one that never seems to dissipate no matter how far I run or how hard I try to dodge its rain. From the time I was a little girl, there was always a silent understanding of what was expected of me. Whether it was unspoken societal norms, the expectations placed on me by my family, or those I burdened myself with, they all seemed to weave together into an intricate web that I could never quite untangle.

In our culture, there’s an ingrained belief that you must rise above, exceed, and never fall short. Being anything less than perfect isn’t just a disappointment; it’s almost a sin. There’s a constant reminder that you are always being watched, always being judged, and somehow, always falling short. It’s like carrying a weight that grows heavier with every step, every breath.

My mother’s eyes, always critical, always searching for something I could improve on—my weight, my grades, my choices. She wants what’s best for me, I know that, but her way of showing it often felt like pressure more than love. My sisters, who I admire and envy in equal measure, seem to glide through life with a confidence that I’ve always lacked. They are everything I am not—beautiful, poised, and successful. Their success feels like a reminder of my shortcomings, even though they never intentionally make me feel that way.

And then there are the expectations I place on myself, the ones that sometimes feel heavier than all the others combined. I expect to be strong, to be capable, to handle everything that comes my way without breaking. But the truth is, I break. Often. I’ve always been my own harshest critic, setting standards that are impossible to meet, and then punishing myself when I inevitably fail.

It’s exhausting, trying to live up to everyone’s expectations, including my own. And yet, despite the exhaustion, I keep pushing. Because what else can I do? The weight of these expectations has shaped who I am, for better or worse. It has driven me to achieve things I never thought possible, but it has also held me back, kept me from taking risks, from truly living.

There’s a fine line between striving for greatness and being crushed by the weight of it all. And I’m still trying to figure out where I fall on that line. The expectations aren’t going anywhere, and neither is the weight they bring. But maybe, just maybe, I can learn to carry it differently, to let it fuel me rather than drain me. Maybe I can learn to set my own expectations, ones that are kinder, more realistic, and more aligned with who I truly am.

The weight of expectations is heavy, but I’m learning that I don’t have to carry it alone. I’m learning that it’s okay to ask for help, to lean on others, and to let go of the need to be perfect all the time. Because at the end of the day, I’m human. Flawed, imperfect, and still worthy of love, acceptance, and success.

There are days when I can almost convince myself that the weight of these expectations is a blessing in disguise, that it's what pushes me forward, keeps me from settling into mediocrity. After all, without them, would I have the same drive to succeed? Would I have made it through the tough times, pushing myself beyond what I thought were my limits? Perhaps not. There’s a twisted comfort in the familiarity of it all—in knowing that as much as these expectations can be a burden, they’re also a part of what makes me who I am.

But there are other days when the weight feels unbearable, when the pressure to be everything to everyone feels like it’s crushing me. On those days, it’s hard not to resent the expectations, to wish I could throw them off and just be… me. Whoever that is. To be free of the constant scrutiny, both from others and from myself. To live without the fear of failing to meet the high standards that have been set for me, by my family, society, and by my own mind.