The Burnout of the Golden Child
For as long as I can remember, from three to 16, I was my parents’ golden child. I had two other siblings — one older and one younger. They were good kids as far as what a ‘good kid’ meant, but a spotlight was never shown on them the way it was for me.
THE GOLDEN YEARS
There are photos of me at the age of three, holding a mic and my mom said I was reciting two pages worth of orations which I most likely did not understand the meaning.
I was told I could sing and dance as a kid. I believed it, so I willingly practised the lambada and classic folk songs to entertain my teachers and house guests. I entertained on command. I’m not sure if I liked it. I have no recollection of feeling one way or another about those moments.
By the time I was in kindergarten, I was at the top of my class — perfecting long exams despite missing a week of school for being sick. I could spell U-M-B-R-E-L-L-A at five years old and I even topped my Chinese class despite not being a native speaker.
In high school, I excelled in academics and in extracurricular activities including being the editor-in-chief for the school paper. I competed in the nationals and won. I was also the student body president during my senior year.
I was special. Exceptional. Meant for big things. When I graduated high school, my parents went on stage about a dozen times because I was being presented with so many awards. They were proud and so was I.
All these things — of being exceptional and wonderful — I believed and held dearly. I accepted the labels and the weight that came along with them.
BEHIND THE SCENES
To be at the top of my class, my mom set the alarm for 5 AM on quiz days even though I had already studied a week before exam day. I would wake up groggy and tired but I’d study because I needed to make sure I got the highest marks. I sometimes set the alarm clock myself. She let me drink coffee. I was nine.
During piano lessons, I would see my two brothers playing outside while I sat for one hour with the teacher. When I said I didn’t want to play the piano anymore, my mom said they had already paid for it so I better suck it up. I eventually learned to play the guitar too.
I wasn’t naturally good at mathematics. My brothers were. While my mom was tutoring me and couldn’t immediately tell her the answer to a multiplication problem, she said, “Why can’t you be as good as your brothers?” and she proceeded to ask my brother what the answer was to which he answered. I never forgot that. When my brother brought it up a few years ago, my mom denied it happened but I could see the guilt on her face. I didn’t say anything and laughed it off to shake the tension that was inadvertently created.
I pushed myself to do better when my mom told me to do so. I did it with profound pride and fear. I wanted to get everything right.
I got into one of the top universities and cried and screamed with excitement with my parents when we found out. I was having panic attacks weeks before the results came in because I felt that I would just die if I didn't get in. I kept waking up in the middle of the night, dreading the rejection letter.
11 HOURS AWAY
University was an 11-hour bus ride from home. That meant it would take 11 hours before my mom could barge into my room to ask about my grades. It was freedom in many ways.
I was pre-med (because, of course, I was). I was determined to become a doctor. At least, I thought I was.
My first year of college went well. I joined a theater group and I was maintaining my scholarship with good grades. And then, I just stopped trying.
There wasn’t a defining moment, really. One day, I was just tired. In hindsight, it was more of a slow crawl toward completely destroying the future I (and, moreover, my parents) had envisioned for me. By senior year, I already knew I wasn’t graduating on time, let alone going to med school. I was failing some of my classes or I stopped attending most of them to hang out with friends.
My parents had no idea this was all happening. One would assume that my mother would be constantly over my shoulder about school but she wasn’t. They actually didn’t ask a lot about how I was doing — which, until now, makes me wonder if they burnt out with me too, especially my mother.
They never demanded to see my records and they didn’t insist on attending my graduation — which I had no plans of attending either.
It was like they just let me go without telling me.
POST-MORTEM
My two brothers went on to become professionals. They’re both married, have kids, and are living great, normal lives.
I, on the other hand, am not married at the ripe ‘ol age of 36, have no plans of having kids, and have been freelancing as a writer for 13 years. I’m comfortable but have very little to write home about.
And it’s not as if I’ve completely stopped trying. Perfectionism still manages to rear its ugly head in many corners.
For example, anxiety and silent rage take over when the slightest change is made to an itinerary because that would mean adjusting the data that I’ve uploaded in my brain to check off every box with time and precision.
I’ve also called myself stupid for not being able to perfectly hand-laminate a croissant, even though it was my first time doing it. If it wasn’t perfect, that meant I failed and that was unacceptable.
There are weeks when I spiral into depression, feeling numb, heavy, and tired for doing the bare minimum…because that was the only thing my brain and body allowed me to do. Sleep made me tired, and being awake made me sad. I felt like nothing and it wouldn't matter if I was nothing.
One Christmas, the three of us were home and had guests. My mom introduced my brothers along with their professional titles. When it was time to introduce me, she mentioned where I graduated from. They weren’t told I was a writer because I hadn’t published a book or written anything of significance that they knew of.
That memory kept replaying in my head for years. It hurt on most days. I take responsibility for how my life has turned out and I wouldn’t have changed anything. I like my life now. I’m proud of what I’ve been able to do for myself and I’m better off with the boundaries I worked so hard to establish.
But when I really sat down with that memory, I theorized that the reason my mom introduced me that way was that receiving that acceptance letter was the last time she was truly proud of something I accomplished in which she was directly involved.
SLEEPWALKING AND ENTITLED
I understood after overcoming bouts of depression throughout my 20s and early 30s that those experiences were where a lot of my people-pleasing and self-hating behaviours came from. Most of my twenties were spent lost, not knowing who I was or what I wanted to become.
That period was disguised as my “free spirit phase.” I got into unhealthy relationships and never really anchored myself to one job. I was living an average existence and it was like sleepwalking all the time. There was this constant question of “What have I done with myself” as if I was sure that I had taken the wrong path. I felt entitled to a happy, shiny life because the people around me when I was younger testified to it.
As I came into my early thirties, I started to grieve for the golden child version of myself despite how torturous it felt for me. As the golden child, I had my mother’s utmost respect and attention. I took that as love without knowing it was both love and manipulation. That’s the thing with familial love, I suppose. It’s tangled with such complex and potent feelings of comfort as well as resentment.
WALLS
I had to unlearn a lot of things, including the idea that love was conditional — that you’re only as good as the things you can do for others.
My mom brings up the fact that I’m not a doctor now and then. I feel the rejection strongly on some days, while there are also moments when I know it’s more about her than me.
I had to forgive my mother for not knowing any better. Their generation is known for having brought up latchkey kids and has borne the brunt of my generation’s trauma. But we often forget the kind of childhood they endured too.
I also had to forgive myself for not having asked for help when I was drowning.
There are still questions like why my mom suddenly stopped caring or if she has any regrets now that I’ve built a wall around myself. There’s an unspoken tension between us that implies there are things we don’t mention anymore and I think we’re both okay with that. But for days when I’m feeling more vulnerable, I think about calling her to check in and maybe see a sign that she’s finally, without any agenda, proud of me. I don’t call, though.
She does post pictures of my travels in weird places on my birthdays. She captions it with “She’s so independent.” As an overthinker, I end up decoding it as “She doesn’t need me anymore.” Did she miss having so much control over me, or did it mean she had set me free? Maybe I still need to work on trusting her again.
My burnout also burned pieces of the connections I had with her. I was a golden child who lost her glimmer. There’s nothing we can change in the past. We can only learn from it and keep moving forward.
