There have been many theories surrounding how one’s fears are shaped by the kind of childhood they had.
But there’s little to no awareness concerning how deeply a parent’s intolerance for failure can scar a child.
My name is Tonye. I am the first of four children, and all my life, I have never truly had it easy.
Papa always believed that excellence was not optional but rather, the law.
“You had the guts to rejoice over this nonsense result?” he barked one evening, waving my report card like it stank. “How can you come second when there is a first position?”
I was just ten then.
After that day, I stopped celebrating small wins. Even smiling when I saw an average grade made me so uneasy. If I wasn't the best, I had utterly failed. And Papa made sure to always remind me that failure meant I hadn’t tried hard enough.
“If you read well, no Jupiter can make you fail.” He would justify.
“Set an example for your younger ones!” he thundered every Saturday after morning chores. “You’re the eldest for crying out loud!”
So I cleaned the house with military precision, rewashed the plates my siblings had washed, and straightened creased sofas multiple times before sitting down. I would ask my younger brother, Tamuno, “Is this good enough?” And he would just laugh, wondering why it should be so perfect.
When I was in secondary school, I became known as “Miss Perfect.” I never talked back to teachers, never missed assignments and never got into any sort of trouble. I studied so hard that my mum feared I was going to go blind seeing that I even read in the dark. But the fear never left. At night, I would seriously rehearse conversations in my head just to make sure that I didn’t sound foolish in front of my classmates. If someone ever laughed as I walked past him, my mind would literally explode with possibilities; maybe they were mocking me or they had seen my flaws.
My friends called me dramatic.“Relax Tonye,” Eniola would say. “You’re doing fine.”
But fine wasn’t good enough for me. Not even for Papa, so obviously not for me.
When I got into the university, the pressure didn’t ease up, it rather evolved. There were no parents watching over my shoulder anymore, but my inner critic had grown canines. I took leadership positions on campus, aced my courses, and tried to be everyone’s favourite by all means. At a point, I became tired and drained. I couldn't even relax in friendships. I replied every message within minutes and for every missed call, I made sure to return just to avoid offending the other party.
After I graduated from the university, I joined a firm and started working. I thought that the shadow of fear had left but without notice, the pattern had deepened. My colleagues liked me, but I never trusted it.
One afternoon, I walked into the General office and everyone suddenly went silent. Instantly, there was a sharp, invisible knife that pierced through my chest.
Trying to hide my innermost thoughts, I smiled. “Hi.”
They smiled back but it felt so fake. And so all day, my heart raced. What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Did they hate me?
Every time it happened, I found myself crying inwardly and most times I would find myself in the restroom, bawling my eyes out.
Then, one evening while I was scrolling through TikTok, I stumbled on a short video. A woman sat in an interview session, with her warm smile and steady voice.
“Life’s success isn’t dependent on how perfect you are,” she said, “but how much you’re committed to learning every day.”
I paused trying to let it sink.
She continued, “People’s criticism shouldn’t make you feel less of yourself. You should feel important because only a dead man doesn’t get spoken ill of.”
My heart became still. It really felt like she was talking to me directly.
I didn’t know when I replayed the video three times.
That night, I wrote something in my diary; something I never did in years. It was a letter to myself.
Dear Tonye,
It’s okay not to be okay. You are not a robot.
You have carried Papa’s voice for too long and you have turned fear into a lifestyle.
But babe, you are allowed to rest. You are allowed to be proud of yourself; even when you’re not first.
Allow yourself to breathe.
It was not magic. Things didn’t just suddenly change automatically. But something had cracked open inside of me; very softly and quietly. And the light began to seep in.
At work, I started drawing boundaries. I told my manager one day, “I need more time on this task,” without shaking inside. I also discovered that when someone criticized a project I led, I didn’t try to go home and cry; rather, I asked questions, clarified, and improved on that project.
At home, I sat with my brother Tamuno
one afternoon and asked if he ever felt the way I did while growing up. He nodded. “But you shielded us, Tonye. You carried all the weight for us.”
His words brought tears to my eyes. This time, I felt healing.
I still get pretty much uneasy. But now, I recognize the feeling and I call it: “ill at ease.” Sometimes I actually talk to it
“You’re safe now,” I would whisper.
Because truly, I am.
And that has made all the difference.