My name is Emily Whitaker, I’m 29, and I live in the quiet town of Stroud, where the River Frome meanders lazily past centuries-old cottages in the Cotswolds. I graduated with honours, work in my field, and earn well—enough to be comfortable by local standards. Financially, I’m secure, but don’t mistake that for happiness. My life feels like a pit I can’t climb out of. Personal joy is a distant mirage because I’m drowning in self-doubt, dragged down by childhood scars. My parents always compared me to others, and I was never good enough for them.
At school, I was the model student—top grades, praise from teachers. But Mum and Dad demanded more. They’d point to our neighbour’s daughter, Gemma: “Look at her, already waitressing at 16, raking in tips while you’re just studying!” I believed education was my path, so I burned the midnight oil, helped at home as best I could. Yet nothing ever satisfied them. Before prom, I dreamed of a dress, heels, dancing. They shut it down: “No money for nonsense.” So I, the straight-A student, stayed home, lied about revising for exams, and cried into my pillow for days. They didn’t care—too busy at work or with friends to notice my tears.
Why did they treat me this way? The question gnawed at me for years until Mum finally snapped: “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 longed to vanish where no one would find me. Salvation came when I got into university in distant Newcastle. I left without looking back. Of course, my parents still jabbed: “Your cousin stayed local, but you had to go to the ends of the earth!”
At uni, I worked two jobs—juggling shifts, lectures, surviving on scraps of sleep and endless coffee, just to avoid asking them for a penny. I borrowed from my uncle, repaid him in months. How I endured, I’ll never know. My student years passed without parties or fun—I pinched every penny while others lived freely. Now, I have a career, can afford holidays, but my ties to my parents are frayed. Let them enjoy their freedom and the money I “stole” by being born. I hope they’re happy without me.
But I’m not happy. I’ve no partner, never had a real love. When someone compliments me, I blush, falter, wish the ground would swallow me. I don’t feel like a woman—just emptiness, like a shattered vase. Childhood wounds still bleed: their voices, their “you’re never enough,” echo in my head. I’m trapped in a vicious cycle, every step a battle against believing I deserve nothing. Sometimes I think I’m doomed to this loneliness, this darkness pulling me under.
I watch my colleagues—confident, laughing, with their families and plans—and feel like an outsider. Why can’t I be like them? Why do I flinch when someone reaches out, terrified I’ll be rejected again? I’ve tried to change: therapy, self-help books, but the past deafens me. Mum and Dad made me this way—insecure, broken, perpetually guilty. They wanted me to be the best, but instead, they turned me into a shadow afraid of the light.
Sometimes I imagine how life 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 relationships. Instead, I hide behind work, behind armour no one can pierce. I don’t know how to escape this trap, how to silence their voices in every whisper. I’m terrified I’ll stay like this—unwanted, dragging this weight forever.
**The lesson?** You can’t heal in the same place that broke you. Sometimes, walking away isn’t failure—it’s the first step toward finding yourself.