Somewhere along the way I confused being good with being everything.

Good mothers don’t lose their patience.

Good partners don’t complain to much.

Good women don’t need reassurance.

Good people don’t drop the ball.

So I performed it.

I performed calm.

I performed capable.

I performed selflessly

Even when I was exhausted – especially when I was exhausted

Being good felt safer than being honest.

I didn’t want to just be loved. I wanted to be unimpeachable. If I was good enough, organised enough, kind enough, productive enough. No one could fault me. No one could leave because I wasn’t enough. No one but myself could say I failed.

Being good became armour. Every moment replayed in my head. Was that good enough? Not because anyone said I was bad. But because I couldn’t tolerate the possibility that I might be.

I attached morality to everything.

• Rest was lazy.
• Saying no was selfish.
• Asking for help was weak.
• Dropping something felt irresponsible.

Even feeling overwhelmed felt like a character flaw. So I compensated. I over-delivered. I over-gave I over- explained I over- functioned.

I didn’t want to just participate in my life. I wanted to earn my place in it.

The exhausting part is the performances don’t end. There’s no curtain call. No applause. No moment where someone says “you can’t stop now”. Because the audience wasn’t people. It’s the voice inside my head. The one that says:

• Be Better
• Do more.
• Don’t slip.
• Don’t let them see you crack.

Sometimes I wonder, who would I be if I wasn’t trying so hard to be good. Would I be less liked? Would people be more disappointed? Or would I finally be honest?

I’m starting to realize something uncomfortable.

Goodness that requires constant performance isn’t goodness. It’s fear.

The real weight I’ve been carrying isn’t just responsibility. It’s the belief that I must earn my place through perfection. But perfection doesn’t exist.

And maybe my place was never something I had to perform for.

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