If you’re reading this, take one step at a time.
Ever since I was a little girl my mother always told me, “Don’t be them, be better than them, when they give 100 percent, give 110%.” I’ve spent my entire life doing exactly that. With those words, my mother instilled in me something I will always be grateful for. Those fourteen words taught me drive, hard work, determination, and unshakeable confidence (or so I thought). My mother had all the best intentions in the world, as any parent does. She’s often brutally honest and she’s often right.
Those words would stick with me forever, both for better and for worse.
The better:
I was a talkative child, I had a way of making my presence known. I worked hard in school and even at a young age I pressured myself to excel. So much so that when I got my first B on a class assignment in lower grade school, I cried. I’ll never forget how disappointed in myself I was. I didn’t feel like that was even 100% let alone 110%. So naturally, I vowed to myself I wouldn’t let it happen again. I became the most seen child. I made a lot of friends, my teachers and administrators spoke fondly of me, I was “popular.” At awards ceremonies, I made sure I had worked hard enough that my name would be called more than once. I grasped at everything I felt was within my reach. I had “mastered” the work and play. I worked hard to receive every accolade I’ve ever gotten and I am proud of myself for it. From the time I was fifteen, I juggled work, school, every leadership position in almost every club/organization imaginable and maintaining this “image” I had made for myself. I was passionate, I was smart, I had it all together. I stood up for myself and others. I equated my being highly opinionated with intelligence and I was quick to argue. I thought I was doing everything right. I regarded myself with high esteem and I acted as such. I dreamt big and I worked tirelessly to make things happen for myself. I was a bit of a “try hard” but I was proud of it.
The worse:
I thought this behavior was normal and quite honestly, I thought less of people who didn’t do the same. Now I know I had my fair share of flaws, but for the most part, I felt like I was doing well. Let me tell you, pride is a funny thing.
I was addicted to this lifestyle I created for myself. I was addicted to stress. I didn’t really have to keep myself busy because I just was. This alone created a host of problems. I had issues with my relationship with food. I was incredibly and cripplingly insecure. I shuddered at the thought of being criticized. I needed to be liked, I needed to be loved. No matter how many people told me it though, I still thought I wasn’t enough. I didn’t love myself. When I was sixteen years old, still very much in this detrimental cycle, the unthinkable happened. Every females’ worst fear came true for me in the middle of a summer night. I was brave enough to tell because in my head that was the right thing to do, not necessarily to get some sort of justice for myself. I told the truth almost to get some validation that I would somehow make it out alive because at that moment I didn’t want to. I was brave enough to tell, but I wasn’t brave enough to heal. I went to therapy, but if there’s anything I learned it’s that therapy works both ways. Instead of addressing the issue at hand, I would tell my therapist about all the other things I had going on. I’d tell her about what the next big role I was running for, how work was going, what I wanted to make on my SATs. I thought that was healing, I thought that was moving on. On the inside though, I was depressed, betrayed, and ashamed. I was ashamed that I was a fraud. I wasn’t who people thought I was. So, I continued to do what I always did to forget those feelings.
Fast forward to my first two years of college and well, essentially nothing had changed. I was excelling in every aspect of my life except privately because I was sadder and angrier than ever. That addiction to stress became all too real but I still never told anyone just how real it was for me. I should have.
During the summer of 2021, when I felt the dust of the first twenty years of my life had settled and there was nothing but quiet I realized I couldn’t keep it up anymore. I realized if I did, I might not be here for twenty more. I let go of the shame and insecurities I felt. I sat with myself and allowed myself to come to terms with who I was and everything that came with it. I finally believed, for once, that my worth was not determined by my productivity and that comparison would be the thief of my joy. I learned to say no more often and I learned to let myself breathe. I’m going to be honest, I thought after that, that everything would change instantly. Needless to say, it did not. I still struggle. At times, I still put all my effort into things I think will help me succeed when I actually just want to sit down and call my family at home. I still feel insecure. Much to elementary me’s dismay, I’ve even made a few more bad grades along the way. But, I’ve learned and I’m still learning. I am healing and finding peace. I’m taking things one step at a time and if you’re reading this, I hope you are too.
Honestly,
-Dasani M., University of South Carolina Class of ‘23
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