on academic validation
A note before we begin:
This isn’t polished, and it’s not meant to be. These are the thoughts that have been swirling in my head for years, the things I’ve struggled to say out loud. I’ve tried to capture them here as honestly as I can. It’s deeply personal, and maybe a little messy—but isn’t that how life feels sometimes?
I still remember the gold star on my first-grade math test. I was six, and that tiny sticker was my world. I wore it like a badge of honor, holding it up for everyone to see, hoping for their approval. Fast forward a decade, and the gold stars turned into percentages, rankings, and awards. The stakes got higher, the praise sweeter—and the absence of it?devastating.
I’ve spent most of my life chasing validation—through grades, achievements, and the reassuring smiles of people around me. With every test, every assignment, and every competition, I learned to equate achievement with acceptance. The praise wasn't just validation; it became the mirror I hold up to measure my worth. Every ‘good job’ from a teacher, every pat on the back from people around me, became an anchor for who I was. If I wasn’t excelling, I wasn’t enough.
Being the “good child” wasn’t just an expectation—it was a role I grew into, one that seemed to follow me everywhere. At home, it meant being the one who rarely needed to be reminded of her responsibilities, at school, it meant being the student who never disrupted the class, always submitted assignments on time, was well behaved and sincere, and scored the best. Even among friends, it meant being the one, people could rely on for advice, and for answers.
But the praise that came with being good was never without its cost. With every “you’re so responsible” and “you have so much potential,” came an unspoken agreement: keep being this way. Be this person. Don’t slip, don’t falter, don’t fail. It wasn’t enough to simply try; I had to excel. I had to live up to the image that others had built of me, even on the days I didn’t feel capable of it. And on those days, when I stumbled or faltered, I didn’t just feel like I had disappointed myself—I felt like I had disappointed everyone who believed in me.
The word “potential” became both a gift and a curse. It was meant as encouragement, a way to remind me of all the things I could achieve. “You’re so capable,” they’d say. “You could do so much more.” But every time I heard it, it felt like an accusation, a reminder that no matter how much I accomplished, it was never quite enough. Potential wasn’t about who I was; it was about who I *could* be. And if I wasn’t constantly striving toward that future version of myself, I felt like I was letting down the present one. It’s not just about meeting expectations—it’s about embodying them. It becomes who you are. And when your identity is so deeply tied to being the dependable one, the capable one, the one with potential, there’s little room to falter. You start to believe that if you’re not those things, then you’re nothing at all.
There are days when the pressure feels all-consuming, and I find myself trapped in a cycle of burnout and paralysis. Trying to be everything—good, responsible, capable—means constantly pushing myself beyond my limits, until there’s nothing left to give. On those days, I don’t leave my bed. Not because I’m physically tired, but because I’m terrified. Terrified that whatever I’m doing isn’t enough, that I’m not enough.
The fear of failing or not succeeding looms so large that it becomes paralyzing. I lie there, replaying every undone task, every potential shortcoming, until the weight of it makes it impossible to move. It’s ironic—this drive to succeed, to prove myself, often leaves me too drained to even try. Burnout isn’t just about exhaustion; it’s about feeling like no matter how much you do, it will never be enough.
One particular moment stands out—a week when everything seemed to collide. Deadlines piled up, expectations from others and myself reached a fever pitch, and I pushed through, ignoring the signs that I needed to slow down. By the end of it, I was completely spent. I couldn’t open my laptop, couldn’t answer messages, couldn’t even convince myself to step outside. All I could do was lie there, staring at the ceiling, consumed by the thought that I was falling behind, that I was failing.
It’s a vicious cycle: the harder I push, the more it takes out of me, and the more I doubt whether I’m doing enough. And yet, stopping feels impossible, because the fear of not living up to expectations is greater than the fear of breaking under their weight.
And yet, even as I write this, I know the journey is far from over. The grip of academic validation isn’t something I can untangle overnight. It’s an ongoing battle, a long road ahead filled with moments of questioning and relearning. There are days when it feels like I’ve made progress, like I’m not defined by my grades or the opinions of others anymore. But there are other days—when I’m facing a challenging assignment or waiting for feedback—when the weight of it all feels just as heavy as it ever did.
It’s a strange feeling, knowing that you’ve come a long way and yet still have so far to go. I catch myself slipping back into old patterns, measuring my worth by the compliments I receive or the outcomes I achieve. It’s like second nature, this constant need to prove myself. But there are also moments—quiet, unexpected moments—that make me pause and question everything.
But those moments are rare, and they don’t come easily. Unlearning these deeply ingrained patterns takes time. There are still days when I feel the anxiety of not doing enough, of falling short of what others expect or what I expect from myself. There’s still that voice that says, “You should be doing more,” “You should be better.” But in the quiet moments, when I allow myself to sit with those thoughts, I begin to realize that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. I don’t need to be perfect to be worthy of respect, of love, or of happiness.
I don’t have all the answers. Maybe I never will. And that's okay too— exist outside of expectations.
To everyone who has ever felt crushed under the weight of potential: you’re not alone. You’re not failing. And even if it feels like no one notices, your effort matters.
You matter.
PS: I’d like to recommend a song that feels like it was written for anyone who’s ever felt stuck in a cycle of self-doubt or carried the weight of unmet expectations. If you haven’t heard it yet, consider this your nudge.
Getting my hopes as high as possible by reading your almanac. This has really become my comfort space now thanks alot babe ♥️♥️😌