The weight of expectation has been something I’ve had to grapple with my entire life. My parents weren’t shy about how much they expected from me. 

Even early on in my education career, they expected the highest scores in spelling tests and basic math. 

There wasn’t much wiggle room for failure. Whenever I fell short a little, it was a big family discussion — it always felt so serious. 

I know they wanted me to achieve, but I don’t think they fully realized that I was crushing under the weight of their assumption that I was made for academic greatness.

What if I wasn’t? 

Why did they get to choose the goals of my life? Was it fair that I had such little say? 

Pressure on from the get-go

Growing up, it was like living in a world where only A’s mattered, and anything less was the end of the world. My parents were all about pushing for success, but sometimes it felt like I was just trying to live up to their dreams, not mine.

I mean, they meant well, but it’s tough when you’re constantly trying to hit a target that someone else has set for you.

They had generic goals set up for me. They wanted me to study hard, get a good job, and work myself to death each day for the rest of my life. 

A good job to them meant being a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer — you know, the typical stuff. 

And you want to know what was the worst? 

Ever since I was a child, I’ve always felt a strong magnetic pull towards artistic expression. I simply adored the idea of being able to express myself through music, painting, or even poetry. 

These hobbies weren’t even entertained in my household. I felt embarrassed about even thinking about it. I used to hide my poems and drawings in old notebooks amid stacks of old test papers where I knew nobody would look. 

It didn’t have to be said, I knew it wouldn’t go down well. 

Boiling point

The disconnect between what I wanted and what was expected of me started taking a toll on my mental health. 

I began to sink into depression, feeling trapped in a life that didn’t feel like mine. I was pursuing goals that didn’t bring me joy, and it felt like I was losing my identity. 

The realization hit hard – I couldn’t continue down this path without losing myself completely.

It wasn’t an easy thing to communicate to my parents. They had given me so much, invested so much in me — I was their golden child. 

It caused a lot of tension in our household at first. They couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to strive for the best university to get the best job.

Doing something different just didn’t seem like it was in the realm of possible options for them. I felt like an alien in my own family home. 

Achieving an understanding involved having some of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had. I had to express my feelings, my struggles, and my desires to live a life that was true to myself. 

I explained about my depression and the need to follow my own path, even if it diverged from their expectations.

A crucial part of this journey was becoming financially independent. I realized that as long as I was reliant on my parents financially, I would never truly be free to make my own choices. 

It was tough, but I took on part-time jobs and freelance work, slowly building my independence.

The freedom to make my own choices

As I slowly earned my financial independence, I found a new sense of freedom. The freedom to make my own choices, to explore my passions, and to define my own success. 

This path was fraught with challenges, but it was mine, and that made all the difference. I started to indulge in my artistic passions more openly, spending my free time painting and writing poetry. 

I realized that these activities weren’t just hobbies; they were essential parts of my identity.

I wish I could look back and say my parents were proud of me during this stage of my life, but I knew they weren’t. It was quite the opposite — they had never been so disappointed. 

It was difficult for me to reconcile the fact that I’d never felt happier with the knowledge that my parents were suffering as a result of my choices. 

But hey, you only get to live once, right? 

I thought about it a lot and decided I’d rather go through the immediate discomfort than to resent my parents forever for never letting me self-actualize. 

As my independence grew, so did my desire to explore the world. I saved up from my part-time jobs and embarked on travels that took me to different parts of the globe. 

Each destination was an opportunity to learn, to grow, and to find inspiration for my art. 

I met fellow travelers and artists who shared their stories and perspectives, enriching my understanding of the world and myself.

Traveling not only broadened my horizons but also deepened my connection with my art. In every new place, I found something unique.

These forms of expression became therapeutic, a way for me to process my thoughts and feelings. It helped me to heal from the years of suppressed creativity.

Going forward

Now, I’m 34 and just entering parenthood. And I know one thing for sure — I won’t be projecting my dreams onto my kids. 

I’ve pretty much made a personal oath to support them and accept them in whatever they choose to do. I don’t want to continue the transgenerational cycle and I want my children to feel like they can tell me anything. 

And financially? You wouldn’t believe it, but everything worked out in the end. I make enough money with my work and have plenty of free time to keep creating and to spend time with my family. 

I can’t even imagine how I’d ever cope working long hours in a hospital and never getting a moment to enjoy the simpler things in life. 

The relationship with my parents has healed. I think they just needed to see with their own eyes that living outside the lines was possible. 

I forgive them because I know their choices for me were fear-driven. But I refuse to live like that. I refuse to live in fear.