you could be brilliant...but you're coward.

confronting my childhood trauma.

“Children shut down their natural desires and instincts to survive the disapproval of their caregivers.”- Psychologist Dr. Dan Siegel

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When you were a child, you were fearless. You’d throw yourself into anything that caught your attention; acting, piano, violin, basketball, ice skating and so much more without a second thought.

You loved the rush of trying, of discovering what you could do, of feeling alive in your own skin. It didn’t matter if you were good at it or not. You didn’t need to be. Failure wasn’t something to fear back then, it was just a part of learning, a part of growing. You were young and free, balanced and healthy in your own joy.

Somewhere along the way, everything changed. You learned that joy wasn’t enough. Trying wasn’t enough. Your mother made sure of that. She wanted brilliance, perfection, a child who could perform and succeed and never falter. And when you didn’t meet her standards, she made it clear you were never enough. Every mistake, every stumble, every failure became a story she’d retell, a reminder of how inadequate you were. When she laughed about your failures, it wasn’t just that she was making fun, it was like she was laughing at you. Laughing at the girl who was never good enough, never enough for her. You didn’t understand it then, but when she laughed, it was like you were the joke and you believed it.

You let the piano gather dust, the ice rink fade into memory, the basketball sit forgotten in the corner and the stage lights switched off, and you were permanently out of service.

You stopped trying, stopped living.

Her demands for perfection didn’t turn you into a high achieving type A, they turned you into a failed star, someone burnt out before you ever had a chance to shine. You envied those who kept going. Watching them, you felt this bitter jealousy, why should they get to thrive when you couldn’t even try? Your heart grew heavy with it, that gnawing ache of always feeling second best, and instead of cheering them on, you retreated further into yourself hating them for succeeding.

You were friends with the smart girls, the sporty girls, the ones who could do everything right on the first try. And you envied them. You envied them with a bitterness that never seemed to go away. They were the ones who made the A’s, who scored the goals, who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

They were the ones your mother talked about, the ones who could do no wrong. And every time they won, you felt it like a punch to the gut. You wanted to be them, smart, sporty and effortlessly good at everything.You were always the runner-up, the one who never quite made the grade, the one who didn’t measure up. You watched them, pretending to be happy for them, but deep down, you were just jealous. Jealous of their confidence, their ease, their ability to be everything your mother wanted you to be. You wanted to be smart like them, sporty like them, effortless like them. Instead, you were always trying, always failing, always coming up short, always a failure.

That envy became a poison, eating away at you from the inside. You hated yourself for it, hated that you couldn’t be happy for them, hated that your heart was always heavy with the weight of your own inadequacy.

You tried to ignore it, to tell yourself it didn’t matter, that you loved your friends, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you started to despise being around them for succeeding. That’s hard to admit. It’s ugly to admit, because we both know you aren’t an ugly person. You have love and laughter in your veins, but you’ve been poisoned all your life.

And so, you learned to do nothing.

To let laziness cloak you like armour, protecting you from the pain of trying and falling short. It was easier to stay in the shadows, to let the fear of failure keep you from even starting. Because if you didn’t try, you couldn’t fail.

That’s what laziness became for you, your shield, your excuse for not going after what you truly wanted. Deep down, you know that armour is brittle. It cracks every time you remember what it felt like to love something for the sake of loving it, to play, to explore, to believe you were capable of more.

Now, even though you’ve grown past the need for her approval, those old fears still shape how you approach new things. You think you need to be good at something in the first try, that failure isn’t an option. That’s the lie that keeps you from trying, that keeps you stuck in this cycle of laziness. You’ve become comfortable with doing nothing because it’s easier than facing the risk of not being enough. But deep down, you know it’s not enough to let fear control you, to let laziness be the reason you never try. At least now she has a valid reason to criticize you.

You know what’s the hardest truth to face? That you’re a coward. That’s what you’ve become, afraid to try, afraid to risk, because you can’t stand the thought of falling short again.

You’ve let the fear of not being perfect keep you from even starting, from pushing yourself to be better. It’s easier to stay in the shadows, to avoid the possibility of failure, than to face the reality that you might not be as brilliant as you once dreamed.

You’ve let that cowardice keep you from discovering who you really are, from embracing your true potential. You’re like a ghost of the girl you used to be, the one who would run down the stairs, laughing and full of life, completely unafraid of what the world might throw at her. Now, all that’s left is a hollow version of yourself, the light gone, the joy faded, and all you feel is your past; a constant reminder of what you’ve lost.

And it feels so unfair, so very unfair, that someone who was supposed to love you turned you into a monster. Now, you’re waiting for the day to not be like her, to be everything to your children, because you cannot bear to imagine your children being broken by you, like how your mother broke you.