I can’t afford to fail because that’s where you would consider me as your child
“Galingan mo lagi sa pag-aaral.”
“Dapat may medal ka din katulad ng kapatid mo.”
“Bakit ang baba ng grades mo? Kung ano-ano siguro ang inaatupag mo.”
These words echo in my mind, like a constant reminder of the expectations you've placed on me. Every day, I carry the weight of your hopes, your dreams, and your demands. I live my life trying to meet your expectations, believing that my worth as your child is measured by the grades I bring home. It’s as if the value of my existence is tied to the numbers on a report card, the medals hanging on the wall, and the praise from others who only see the surface.
You’ve always told me to strive for excellence, to be as successful as my siblings, and to never settle for anything less than the best. And so, I’ve pushed myself—studying late into the night, sacrificing sleep, friends, and even my own happiness—to ensure I don’t fall short. I’ve learned to hide my struggles, my exhaustion, and my fears because there’s no room for failure in your eyes. Failure means disappointment, and disappointment means not being worthy of your love.
I can’t afford to fail, not because I’m afraid of the consequences that come with it, but because I’m terrified of what it would mean to you. Failure, to me, is not just a poor grade; it’s the fear of losing my place in your heart. It’s the fear that you will no longer see me as your child, that I will become a shadow in the background, unnoticed and unworthy.
Every time I see your disappointed gaze when my grades don’t measure up, it cuts deeper than any criticism. It’s a reminder that my worth is conditional, dependent on my ability to meet your expectations. I’ve tried to be everything you wanted—a good student, a high achiever, someone who can make you proud. But in doing so, I’ve lost a part of myself. I’ve become so focused on not failing that I’ve forgotten who I am beyond the grades and the medals.
You’ve made me believe that I must earn your love through achievements and that I must constantly prove myself to be considered your child. It’s a burden that weighs heavily on my shoulders, a pressure that never eases. I’ve become consumed by the fear of failure, not because I’m afraid of what it means for me but because of what it might mean to you.
I wish I could tell you how much it hurts to live in fear of not being good enough. I wish I could make you see that I am more than just my grades and that my worth should not be defined by academic success. But every time I try to speak, the words get caught in my throat, choked by the fear of disappointing you even more.
So, I continue to push myself to strive for perfection and meet the impossible standards that you’ve set. Because in my mind, if I fail, I lose more than just your approval—I lose the part of me that is your child. I can’t afford to fail because, in your eyes, failure would mean I’m not deserving of your love.
And that is a burden I’m not strong enough to bear.
