Unlearning Her Voice

They told me I was cheating

Even when I won fair

Said I must’ve tricked the world

that success was just a dare

They told me I was stupid

Worthless, doomed to fail

Every step I took forward

Was met with “you’ll derail."

I carry echoes in my bones

The rage of a losing hand

Cards scattered, curses thrown

By the one who couldn't stand

to see me rise, to see me shine

To witness me believe

So now I doubt the very proof

That lives in what I achieve

I silence dreams before they speak

Preparing for the fall

Even joy feels counterfeit

Like I don’t deserve it all

But somewhere deep, a whisper grows

A voice that sounds like mine

She’s softer, stronger, learning still

To claim her place in time

I’m one year away from finishing my master’s program. It’s a milestone that should feel like proof of growth, intelligence, and perseverance. And yet, what I often feel instead is fear. Guilt. Shame. Doubt. I look at my progress and wonder if I’ve somehow tricked the system. That I’ve manipulated my way this far. That maybe I don’t really deserve any of it.

This is imposter syndrome—but not the kind that comes from comparison or perfectionism. Mine runs deeper. It has a name, a voice, and a face. My mother’s.

All my life, she told me I wasn’t capable. That I was stupid, lazy, dramatic, and destined to fail. If I ever showed ambition, her response was venom wrapped in sarcasm:

“Why even try? You’ll never finish.”

“You really think you're special?”

“You’ll never make it on your own.”

“If I can’t do it, you sure as hell can’t.”

“Don’t even bother—you always give up.”

That constant messaging became the foundation of my self-concept. Even when I achieved something real, I couldn’t let myself believe it was valid. Because somewhere inside me, she still whispers: You didn’t earn this. You cheated. You’re a fraud.

That belief started early. I remember one specific moment when I was about 7 or 8. My mother and I were playing a card game. I won. Instead of congratulating me or laughing it off, she exploded. She grabbed the cards and hurled them across the room, yelling that I was a cheater, screaming that I was “fucking retarded,” and declaring that she doesn’t play with cheaters. I just sat there, stunned and small. In that moment, I learned that success—especially mine—was dangerous. That being proud, being right, being good at something… would cost me love.

Ironically, years later, when I played board games with my son, she’d get angry at me for not letting him win. In front of him, she’d scold me:

"You always have to win, don’t you? You need to let him win sometimes."

Then she'd roll her eyes, stomp off, and mutter something under her breath. No matter what I did—win or lose, try or retreat—it was always somehow the wrong thing in her eyes. And always, I was the problem.

These double standards and emotional whiplash left deep scars. They taught me not to trust my instincts, to fear my strengths, and to second-guess everything good I create. Now, even as I approach a major academic achievement, I still hear that critical voice telling me I don’t belong. That I’m not smart enough. That I must be faking it somehow.

And yet… another voice is starting to emerge.

It’s quieter, less familiar, but it’s mine. It says:

You did this.

You’ve worked for this.

You deserve to be proud.

You're not manipulating.

You’re not cheating.

You’re becoming who you were always meant to be—despite what they tried to destroy.

That voice is still learning to speak up. Some days it barely whispers. But it’s there. And that alone is a kind of revolution.

I’ve realized that healing doesn’t mean pretending none of it happened. It means acknowledging how deep the roots of those lies go—and choosing, again and again, not to water them. It means honoring the parts of myself that were silenced, doubted, or punished simply for existing. It means knowing that success doesn’t make me bad, selfish, or threatening. It means telling my younger self, over and over, She was wrong about you. You’re not her story. You’re your own.

This journey isn’t easy. Some wounds don’t disappear just because you succeed. But every step forward is proof that I’m still choosing myself. And that’s something worth celebrating—even when the old voices try to drown it out.

This site, my profession, it's how I work towards unlearning her voice. And hopefully, in the process, it can help other's unlearn their parents voice as well.