I’ve never been good enough for my parents—always compared to someone else.
My name is Emily Whitmore, I’m 29, and I live in a little town called Stamford, where the River Trent lazily winds past rows of old brick houses in Lincolnshire. I graduated with honours, landed a proper job in my field, and earn decently—by local standards, it’s practically a fortune. Financially, I’m sorted, but don’t mistake that for boasting. My life feels like a pit I can’t climb out of. Happiness is a mirage because I’m drowning in insecurities that have dragged me down since childhood. My parents always measured me against others, and I was never quite enough.
In school, I was a model student—top marks, glowing reports from teachers. But Mum and Dad? Never satisfied. They’d shove the neighbour’s daughter, Sophie, in my face: *”Look at her—waitressing at 16, raking in tips while you’re still studying!”* I believed education was my way out, so I crammed all night, helped at home as much as I could, but nothing ever pleased them. Before prom, I dreamed of a dress, heels, dancing. They shut it down: *”No money for nonsense.”* I, the straight-A student, stayed home, made up excuses about revision, and sobbed into my pillow for days. They barely noticed—too busy working or down the pub with mates, oblivious to my tears.
Why did they treat me like this? That question gnawed at me for years until Mum finally blurted, *”You ruined our youth—we never planned for you.”* Those words cut like a knife. I felt like a mistake, rubbish to be tossed out. I wanted to vanish. Salvation came when I got into uni in distant Newcastle. I left without looking back. Of course, they still found a way to jab: *”Your cousin’s staying close to home, and you’re off to the ends of the earth!”*
At uni, I worked two jobs, dashed to lectures, survived on coffee and naps, refusing to ask them for a penny. Borrowed from my uncle, paid him back in months. How I didn’t collapse is a mystery. My student years passed without parties or fun—I pinched every penny while others lived it up. Now I’ve got a career, I can afford holidays, but my parents are barely in my life. Let them enjoy their freedom and the money I *”stole”* by being born. Hope they’re happy without me.
But I’m not happy. No boyfriend, no real love. If someone compliments me, I blush, stammer, wish the floor would swallow me. I don’t feel like a woman—just empty, like a cracked vase. Childhood wounds still bleed: Mum and Dad’s voices, their *”you’re never as good,”* echo in my head. I’m stuck in this vicious cycle, every step a battle against the belief I don’t deserve joy. Feels like I’m doomed to loneliness, this darkness pulling me deeper.
I watch my colleagues—confident, laughing, with their families and plans—and feel like an outsider. Why can’t I be like them? Why, when someone reaches out, do I flinch, afraid they’ll reject me? I’ve tried changing—therapy, self-help books—but the past drowns it out. Mum and Dad made me this way: insecure, broken, forever guilty. They wanted me to be the best, but instead, they turned me into a shadow afraid of the light.
Sometimes I imagine how things might’ve been if they’d just once said, *”We’re proud of you.”* Maybe I’d have learned to love myself, trust people, build something real. Instead, I hide behind work, behind armour, where no one sees me cry. I don’t know how to escape this trap, how to stop hearing their disapproval in every sigh. I’m terrified I’ll stay alone—unwanted, dragging this weight forever. Please, tell me—how do I break free? How do I believe I deserve more than this endless loop of pain and loneliness? I’m tired of never being enough—for them, for myself, for life.
