My name is Evelyn Hartley, I’m 29, and I live in the quiet riverside town of Stratford-upon-Avon, where the Avon lazily winds past centuries-old cottages. I graduated with honours, landed a solid job in my field, and earn enough to be comfortable—what most here would call a small fortune. Don’t mistake this for pride, though. My life is a gaping void I can’t escape. Happiness feels like a desert mirage, always out of reach, because I’m drowning in insecurities that have dragged me under since childhood. My parents never stopped comparing me to others, and to them, I was never enough.
At school, I was the model student—top marks, praise from teachers. But Mum and Dad demanded more. They’d shove the neighbour’s daughter, Charlotte, in my face: *“Look at her—already waitressing at 16, raking in tips while you’re still buried in books!”* I clung to education as my way out, studying through the night, helping at home however I could. Nothing satisfied them. The night of prom, I dreamed of a ballgown, heels, dancing. Their response was curt: *“We’re not wasting money on nonsense.”* I stayed home—the straight-A student—blaming mock exams, crying into my pillow for days. They didn’t care. Too busy at work or down the pub, blind to my tears.
*Why?* The question gnawed at me until Mum finally spat it out: *“You ruined our youth. We never wanted you.”* Those words stabbed like a blade. I felt like trash—unwanted, disposable. I longed to vanish. Salvation came when I got into university in York. I left without looking back. Still, they sneered: *“Your cousin stayed local. You had to flee to the other end of the country.”*
I worked the moment I arrived—two jobs, lectures in between, surviving on coffee and stolen naps, refusing to ask them for a penny. Borrowed from my uncle, repaid in months. How I survived, I’ll never know. While others partied, I scrimped. Now, I have a career. I can afford holidays. But my parents are ghosts in my life. Let them enjoy the freedom and money I “stole” by being born. I hope they’re happy without me.
But I’m not. No boyfriend, no real love. Compliments make me flush, stammer, wish the earth would swallow me whole. I don’t feel like a woman—just an empty vessel, shattered. Childhood wounds still bleed: their voices, their *“you’re never good enough,”* echo in my skull. I’m trapped in a loop, every step a battle against the belief I don’t deserve joy. I fear I’ll always be alone, swallowed by this darkness.
I watch colleagues—confident, laughing, with their families and futures—and feel like an outsider. Why can’t I be like them? Why do I flinch when someone reaches out, terrified they’ll reject me? I’ve tried therapy, self-help books, but the past drowns it out. My parents made me this—broken, guilty, always bracing for blame. They wanted me to be the best, but instead, they turned me into a shadow afraid of the light.
Sometimes I imagine a life where they’d once said, *“We’re proud of you.”* Maybe I’d have learned to love myself, to trust, to let someone in. Instead, I hide behind my job, my armour, where no one sees me crumble. I don’t know how to escape this trap or silence their taunts in every whisper. I’m terrified I’ll die alone—unwanted, crushed by the weight of a past that won’t let go. Tell me, how do I claw my way out? How do I believe I deserve more than this endless cycle of pain? I’m so tired of never being enough—for them, for myself, for life.
