The Weight of Expectations

It’s strange, how people think they know what’s best for you,

even when they don’t know the first thing about who you really

are.

From the moment we’re born, expectations are placed upon

us like invisible chains. “Be this,” they say. “Do that. Don’t

disappoint us.” And so, we spend our lives trying to meet

standards that were never ours to begin with.

For me, those expectations have always been a crushing

weight—a constant reminder that I am never enough. No matter

what I do, no matter how hard I try, it always feels like I’m falling

short.

Family, friends, society—they all have their own versions of

who I’m supposed to be. They want me to smile when I feel like

crying, to speak when I have no words, to succeed when I can

barely get through the day.

“Why aren’t you like him?” they ask, comparing me to

someone else. Someone better. Someone who isn’t me. I try to

explain that I’m doing my best, but they don’t hear me. Or

maybe they just don’t care.

The truth is, I’ve stopped trying to meet their expectations.

Not because I don’t care, but because I know I’ll never be able to.

The more I give, the more they take, until there’s nothing left of

me.

But even though I’ve stopped trying, the weight is still there.

It’s in their eyes when they look at me, in their words when they talk about me, in the silence when I fail to meet their unspoken

demands.

There are moments when I think about running away—not

physically, but emotionally. I imagine building walls so high that

no one can ever reach me, so I can finally be free of their

judgment.

But even in my fantasies, I can’t escape the guilt. Guilt for

not being who they want me to be. Guilt for wanting to be

someone else. Guilt for wanting to be myself.

And so, I carry the weight. I carry it because I don’t know

how to let it go. I carry it because, deep down, I still hope that

one day they’ll see me for who I am, not for who they want me

to be.

But that hope is a fragile thing, easily shattered by a harsh

word or a dismissive glance. And every time it breaks, a piece of

me breaks with it.

People say that expectations are a sign of love, that they only

want what’s best for you. But if that’s true, why does their love

feel so suffocating? Why does it make me feel so small?

I wish I could tell them how I feel. I wish I could make them

understand that their expectations are not my dreams. But the

words never come. They stay locked inside me, like a secret I’m

too afraid to share.

And so, I live in this in-between space, caught between who

I am and who they want me to be. A prisoner of their love, their

hope, their disappointment.

I wonder—will I ever be free? Or will I spend the rest of my

life carrying this weight, until it finally breaks me?