Winning Outside, Withering Within

I remember the sound of the crowd during graduation—cheers, applause, my name echoing in the hall. I was the top of my batch. Valedictorian. Dean’s Lister every single semester. My parents beamed like I had given them the world.

And in a way, I had.

All my life, I worked hard to make them proud. I learned how to survive with performance—excellence was my currency. Achievements were my armor. As long as I was winning, no one would ask what was really going on.

No one would ask if I was okay.

Because I wasn’t.

Behind the medals, I was crumbling quietly. Loneliness had built a home inside me. I didn’t know who I was outside of school. I didn’t know how to rest, how to be still, or how to admit that I was tired of being "the achiever." I was surrounded by people but completely alone.

And then I made a mistake that shattered me.

I let someone in.
He was sweet. He said the right things. He saw me—not as the achiever, but as the girl.
I was so starved for affection that I ignored the red flags. I wanted to be chosen, not just admired. I wanted to feel... loved. So when things went too far, I convinced myself it was fine.

But it wasn’t.

The guilt sank in like quicksand.
The shame didn’t show up all at once—it built slowly. Quietly.
Until one night, I was crying on the bathroom floor, whispering the words,
“I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

And still… no one knew.

I performed through it. Posted curated smiles. Attended events. Answered the “How are you?” with “I’m great!”

Until one Sunday, with a heart on the edge of breaking, I walked into a church alone.

I sat in the back, hoodie up, trying not to be seen. The worship started and I couldn’t hold it together. I didn’t know the lyrics, but they knew me. The message pierced right through the mask I’d worn for years.

The pastor said, “You don’t need to have it all together to come to God. He wants the real you—yes, even the messy, guilty, aching parts.”

And something inside me cracked open.

That day, I didn’t just cry.
I surrendered.

Weeks later, someone invited me to a coaching group. At first, I hesitated—what would they think if they knew everything? But when I showed up, I met women who didn’t flinch at my story. They listened. They prayed. They reminded me I wasn’t the only one who had tried to outrun her brokenness.

Slowly, I started to believe that grace was for me too.

Now, I’m not chasing perfection anymore.
I’m learning to breathe.
To be.
To begin again.

And this time, I’m not doing it alone.