Have you ever realized how easily a few words from a parent can turn your day around when you’re little? 

I remember craving that feeling of lightness whenever my father would mutter a short “Good job” or my mother would nod in my direction, not quite smiling but not entirely dismissive either. 

Moments like those were rare, like tiny droplets of water in a desert. I can still picture myself at the dining table, hoping someone would ask me about my day. That hope often faded into silence.

Why? Because in my house, praise wasn’t a regular thing. 

If you brought home a perfect test score, it got a quick glance. If you failed, you were told to “do better next time.” No fanfare for success and no real empathy for mistakes. 

It sounds harsh, and in some ways, it was. But I don’t see my parents as monsters. They were doing what they knew with the tools they had. 

Still, the emotional chill in our home shaped my self-esteem in ways I didn’t understand until much later. I often wondered if something was wrong with me. Maybe I just wasn’t lovable, or so I thought when I was ten. 

I remember racing home with my best drawings, only to be greeted by an empty kitchen or a half-distracted “That’s nice.” 

Those responses seemed to confirm my worst fears: that my best wasn’t good enough, and my needs were asking too much of people. Back then, my imagination filled the gaps. I’d daydream that someone, somewhere, thought I was special. But daydreams only last so long before reality sets in.

As a teenager, I started to notice a pattern that followed me from the classroom to social events. I tried hard—too hard—to earn a smile or a compliment. When a friend told me I was fun to be around, I’d cling to those words for days, repeating them in my mind like a mantra. My fear was that if I didn’t try enough, I’d lose that validation. 

The truth is, this pattern bled into my early adulthood. Relationships became my playground for seeking approval. I’d stay in conversations longer, laugh louder, and offer more help than was ever asked of me.

It was nice at first because people like a good listener and an enthusiastic friend. But deep inside, I felt emptier with every compromise I made just to stay on people’s good side. I was terrified of being abandoned. So I kept giving, but I rarely received in return.

Then came the guilt. If someone didn’t appreciate my efforts, I blamed myself. I believed I wasn’t trying hard enough or that I was inherently flawed. This belief turned into a loop: crave praise, work overtime for it, get let down, feel guilty. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

It wasn’t until my late 20s that I recognized I was on a hamster wheel. And the worst part was that no external validation ever filled the hole I felt inside. It temporarily soothed me, but the emptiness returned with a vengeance whenever I was alone with my thoughts.

My path to self-worth 

My turning point came when I became a mother. Suddenly, I had a child depending on me for emotional security. That woke me up. I didn’t want him to grow up feeling starved for attention or quietly begging for scraps of approval. 

But old habits don’t magically disappear when you realize they exist. It’s a process, and I started by confronting the biggest obstacle: my own belief that I had to earn love to be worthy of it. You see, beliefs can be stubborn. Yet I was done letting them run my life.

One tool that sparked my change was Rudá Iandê’s “Free Your Mind” masterclass. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but it genuinely cracked open my old mindset. I took the course, and the exercises were eye-opening. They helped me see how much of my identity was locked into seeking approval. 

The masterclass forced me to look at my biggest limiting belief: that I had no inherent value unless someone said I did. The lessons nudged me to challenge that assumption. Little by little, I started showing myself compassion instead of waiting for others to give me permission to do so.

What I appreciated most about Rudá Iandê’s approach was how he encouraged radical self-love and acceptance without sugarcoating the journey. He insisted that our fears often rest on outdated narratives we carry around. 

Mine revolved around not being lovable. The course inspired me to rewrite that narrative with patience. I confronted the self-defeating stories I told myself and started to see that I am allowed to exist wholeheartedly, flaws and all. I don’t need to be perfect. I just need to acknowledge that I’m enough.

Reclaiming my inner authority

Once I started to question every thought that told me I needed someone else’s words to feel whole, I could feel tiny differences in the ways I responded to old cues. 

For instance, instead of rushing to meet expectations or guess what others wanted, I began asking myself: “What do I want?” It may sound simple, but it felt like an act of rebellion. I took small steps at first, like picking a new hobby purely because I found it interesting, not because anyone thought I’d be good at it.

My relationships changed as I became more self-reliant. Friends who thrived on me constantly bending over backward felt confused when I didn’t jump to please them. Some drifted away. Others embraced my shift, and we found a healthier balance.

I also noticed that being comfortable with myself made me more relaxed around others. The old anxiety of “Am I doing enough for them to like me?” lost its grip when I prioritized self-acceptance. Surprisingly, I discovered that the less I needed anyone’s praise, the more genuine praise I received.

Today, I teach my son that his worth isn’t conditional. If he accomplishes something, I let him know I’m proud, but I also remind him he has value just by being himself.

The same goes for me. Every time I pause to give myself credit, I’m rewriting the outdated script that once guided my life. Looking in the mirror and not seeing a “broken person” but an evolving human being has changed everything.

I know the journey isn’t over. Old triggers still pop up here and there, but I remind myself that self-love is a practice, not a finish line. Whenever I sense the urge to chase someone’s approval, I pause and reflect on how far I’ve come.

Because the truth is, I no longer starve for anyone’s “Good job.” I feed myself the reassurance and love I need. And now I see that scarcity in childhood doesn’t have to dictate a lifetime of desperation. Instead, it can fuel a commitment to living fully, unapologetically, and on my own terms.