By Arya Priyadarshni
The Unseen Scars: Growing Up Too Fast in a Single-Parent Household
Childhood is often painted as a time of innocence, laughter, and exploration—a period where mistakes are forgiven, and growth is celebrated. But for me, growing up with a single mother meant that childhood was more of a battlefield than a playground. It was a stage where survival, performance, and perfection were expected without exception.
My mother is a fighter. She has worked tirelessly to ensure there was food on the table, tuition fees were paid, and I never felt the absence of my father. But somewhere in the process, her struggles seeped into me. Her silent sacrifices and unspoken pain became burdens I shouldered before I even understood what burden meant. I became the 'good child'—the one who wouldn’t cause trouble, wouldn’t ask for too much, and would excel in everything, just to make her proud.
A Cycle of Expectations and Exhaustion
School wasn’t just about education—it was a performance arena. I had to be the star student, the best dancer, the debate champion, and the class leader. Teachers called me “gifted,” but my insides churned with anxiety before every test and performance. There was no room for failure. If I wasn’t winning medals or earning straight A’s, I was failing—not just myself, but my mother too.
I distinctly remember a day when I was reprimanded in front of the entire class for forgetting an assignment. The teacher’s words—“You’re better than this; don’t disappoint me”—echoed in my ears long after the day ended. That night, I tore through my textbooks until my eyes blurred, promising myself I’d never let it happen again. But the pressure didn’t make me stronger; it left me hollow. As the years passed, the weight of expectations turned into anger—anger at myself for never being enough and at the world for expecting too much. My emotions became unpredictable, erupting at the smallest inconveniences.
Once, during a group project, a classmate made a casual remark about me “always needing control.” Something snapped. I slammed the desk, scattering papers and shocking everyone. I stormed out, trembling with rage, only to cry in the bathroom stall minutes later.
That anger wasn’t about my classmate. It was about years of bottled-up frustration—of not having anyone to lean on, not having space to express weakness, and not having permission to feel tired.
Hyper-Independence and the Fear of Vulnerability
By the time I reached high school, I had mastered the art of self-reliance. I didn’t ask for help, even when I desperately needed it. Whether it was carrying heavy books or handling emotional breakdowns, I managed everything alone.
People admired my independence, calling me “strong” and “mature.” But I wasn’t strong—I was terrified. Terrified of being a burden, of being let down, of letting anyone see the cracks in my armour. Vulnerability felt like a risk I couldn’t afford.
The constant pressure to achieve and perform left me disconnected from my own desires. I didn’t know who I was beyond the achievements and titles. I stopped doing things for fun, because everything had to have a purpose.
I became a stranger to my own emotions. When something hurt, I brushed it off as “not a big deal.” When I felt overwhelmed, I convinced myself I was just being dramatic. I couldn’t distinguish what I genuinely enjoyed from what I was doing to impress others.
I remember staring at my reflection one day and feeling like I didn’t recognize the person looking back. I looked composed, successful, and in control, but inside I felt empty. I had lost touch with what made me happy, what made me feel alive.
Even when I tried to reconnect with myself, it felt forced. I created schedules for journaling and meditation, treating self-care like another task to complete rather than something I could enjoy. I bought self-help books and highlighted every other sentence, hoping the answers I was looking for were buried in someone else’s wisdom.
But no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t fill the void. I kept running from my emotions instead of facing them.
Feminine Energy and the Cost of Being Perfect
As a child, I used to be praised for my appearance—“such a pretty girl,” they’d say. My hair always neatly combed, my clothes ironed to perfection. I looked like the picture of discipline and grace. My mother took pride in it. She’d beam when people complimented me, and in those moments, I felt loved.
But as I grew older and life’s demands increased, my focus shifted entirely to performance. I had to be smart, talented, organised, and polished at all times. My looks were just another area where I had to excel. The stress, however, started catching up with me.
Late nights spent studying, skipped meals, and mounting anxiety took their toll. Dark circles replaced my once-bright eyes, and stress-induced acne began to scar my skin. My hair started falling out, and my body felt heavier, less alive.
The diagnosis of PCOD came like a punch to the gut, confirming what I feared—I was falling apart. My hormones rebelled against me, my cycles were irregular, and I began to gain weight that I couldn’t control no matter how hard I tried. My reflection no longer looked familiar, and the confidence I once carried like armour crumbled.
But the hardest part wasn’t just looking in the mirror and feeling like a stranger; it was hearing my mother’s remarks.
“You’ve let yourself go.”
“No wonder no one will take you seriously looking like this.”
“If you can’t even take care of yourself, how will you handle the world?”
I didn’t know what hurt more—the words themselves or the fact that they came from the one person I wanted to feel safe with. Her nagging felt endless. Every extra pound, every blemish on my skin, every outfit that didn’t fit perfectly became ammunition for criticism.
Somewhere in the process of trying to keep up with expectations, I lost my connection to my feminine energy.
I stopped feeling soft, playful, or graceful. Instead, I felt rigid—always calculating my next move, always preparing for criticism. I became hyper-aware of how I carried myself, sitting straighter, walking faster, and speaking with rehearsed confidence to overcompensate for how out of place I felt inside my own body.
Even small acts of self-care, like doing my hair or painting my nails, felt foreign to me. They seemed pointless, like distractions from the real work I needed to do to “fix myself.” I stopped dressing up, stopped experimenting with makeup, and stopped caring about the things that used to make me feel beautiful.
In trying to appear strong, I buried my softness so deeply that I forgot it was ever there.
The Pressure to Be Perfect
No matter how much I achieved, it was never enough. My mother’s standards kept shifting, and I kept chasing them, exhausting myself in the process.
Even when I excelled academically or won competitions, her praise felt conditional. “Good job, but next time try harder.” “This is nice, but you need to do more.”
I started associating my worth with my performance. I wasn’t loveable for who I was—I was loveable for what I accomplished. And when my body stopped meeting those standards, it felt like I was falling short as a person.
I envied girls who seemed effortlessly confident, who wore their femininity like second skin while I felt trapped in my own. I wanted to feel delicate, beautiful, and light, but all I felt was heavy—heavy with expectations, guilt, and inadequacy.
Weird Healing Patterns and Coping Mechanisms
Healing hasn’t been linear. I’ve tried therapy, yoga, and long walks, but I still find myself falling into old patterns—overworking, overthinking, and avoiding emotions.
One of the strangest ways I’ve coped is by becoming fiercely protective of people I perceive as weak or sensitive. I throw myself into fixing their problems, defending them, and shielding them from the harshness of the world. It’s like I can’t bear to see anyone else struggle the way I did, so I make it my responsibility to protect them—even if it drains me.
At other times, I obsess over cleaning and organizing my surroundings. Controlling my space gives me a sense of order when my emotions feel chaotic.
Other times, I isolate myself completely. I shut off my phone, avoid conversations, and retreat into books or movies to escape reality. It’s like I need to hit reset before I can face the world again.
Reclaiming Myself
Healing has been messy and inconsistent. There are days when I still struggle to believe I’m enough. I catch myself hiding under baggy clothes or cancelling plans because I don’t feel “good enough” to be seen.
But I’m slowly learning that I don’t need to look perfect to deserve love—not from others and certainly not from myself. I’m learning to redefine beauty, not as something external but as something rooted in how I care for myself.
I’m experimenting with small acts of self-love—lighting candles, wearing jewellery, and allowing myself to feel feminine without guilt. I’m giving myself permission to rest, to be soft, to ask for help.
Most importantly, I’m learning to forgive myself—for not always being perfect, for the ways my body has changed, and for the years I spent trying to prove my worth.
Growing up in a single-parent household shaped me in ways I’m still unravelling. It taught me resilience, but it also left me with wounds I’m still healing.
For anyone who’s ever felt the weight of expectations, who’s struggled with disconnection, guilt, or health issues—you’re not alone. Healing isn’t about becoming perfect; it’s about becoming whole.
I’m still learning to embrace the softness I thought I had to abandon. I’m learning that beauty isn’t about performance or perfection. It’s about allowing myself to exist—messy, flawed, and human. And that, I’m realizing, is more than enough.
By Arya Priyadarshni
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