Expectation is suffocating.
Obsession is tiring.
They finally began to respect me
—for who I was—
and it filled me with joy.
It warmed me. I drank it in.
For a while, it felt like air.
Then the air turned thin.
Praise folded into rules.
Compliments built a cage.
Slowly, I was boxed in.
I did not notice the lid closing.
They judge and they blame.
They refuse to ask; they have already decided.
In their heads I became an outline—neat, immovable, finished.
When I moved, they called it wrong.
As if they've already created a version of me
in their minds.
I learned to measure every step by their quiet nods.
My laughter grew careful. My choices small.
I wore the shape they preferred like a borrowed dress—
stitched tight to please, tight enough to choke.
I started to be afraid of their disappointment.
Not because I feared them, but because their expectations had learned to control me.
It is exhausting
trying to meet their impossible expectations.
I stood tall in a self I no longer recognized—
afraid to try, afraid to break the statue they admired.
I told myself to hold steady. To keep what I had earned.
Afraid to lose everything I achieved.
But inside, something thin and stubborn began to ache—an urge to escape.
They call that losing yourself.
I call it finding the parts worth keeping.
Loving the unpolished edges. Smashing the image they built so I could breathe.
In short,
They put you up high and then they throw you away
With a replacement in hand.