All my life, I felt the need to prove my worth to others.

As the youngest member of a high-achieving family, the demand for success was engraved into my childhood. I would put off giving my parents a bad report card or telling them of mistakes in school, knowing that a lecture of disappointment and a comparison to my siblings were sure to follow.

I worked hard to make my parents proud, knowing that they expect the same high level of achievement from me as from my sisters and brother. When I do receive praise, I take it, I savor it. After a while, I began to crave it — depend on it.

My desire for approval is present in my most prominent memories. When I was 10, I spent extra hours ensuring I knew every possible detail for a quiz. When I was 13, I put on my best smile to ensure a scholarship at my high school. When I was 17, I endured sleepless nights to excel in my AP exams. Every time I did well, I needed to do better and more importantly, I needed to hear people were proud of me.

Closing my second year at university, I have spent numerous hours applying to internships that will broaden my experience to future employers. I have continuously emailed alumni and heads in my department about the qualifications I need for a guaranteed job offer after graduation.

Soon, the hard work paid off. I began seeing results on my resume, on my Albert transcript and in my message inbox. Yet, even with the shining plaques of all my success, I felt the emptiest I have ever been.

I let my achievements define who I was: that picture-perfect daughter I sought to be.

This led me to a toxic relationship not only with work culture, but also with myself. I began to pursue opportunities for the sake of hitting my next goal instead of my own eagerness for the role. I enjoyed the jobs I was hired to do: they helped boost my confidence and broaden my skills. However, I cannot say that I pursued them fully out of desire. Due to this, I sacrificed my physical and emotional wellbeing to fulfill my duties. I prioritized work over friends and sat holed up in my room for hours, believing constant work was the surefire way to success.

After a while, this caused me to hit my limits. I struggled to complete important responsibilities due to a lack of motivation. I lashed out at those who offered feedback on my creative work. I could not take a hint of criticism without breaking down, thinking I have let down those who trusted me. I trashed cold email drafts to companies, unable to send them in fear of rejection. I was aware of my behavior, yet I did not do anything to stop it. It got so bad to the point where I paused my activities at a startup I was interning for. This shattered me: my colleagues were like family and they never allowed me to overwork myself. They valued what I could offer their team, and I felt like I had failed them. It took such a disheartening moment for me to open my eyes — who was I truly doing these things for?

Who was I beyond my achievements?

Now in my last year as a teenager, I wonder about all the things I have done for myself. I cannot recall a time when I drew something that was not for a job or read something that was not for a class. I still have not allowed myself to make dumb decisions and accept their repercussions. I still have not lived my life freely. Working towards my next goal was all I knew — how could I just stop?

We tend to think of life as a race. We are conditioned by unrealistic standards. In turn, we prioritize our rank and status over the state of our happiness. Slowly, I am starting to prioritize myself again: whether it’s stocking up on novels from the bookstore, taking a quiet walk around the highline or even dancing around my room with headphones on full volume, I am learning the importance of working at my own pace and doing things for myself.

Yes, succeeding is important, but it is not worth sacrificing your identity for.