They took every one of my successes from me.
The small ones and the big ones alike.
The small ones, because others achieved bigger things.
The big ones, because there were always achievements that looked more spectacular, more monumental.
I learned that this was simply how things worked.
A small success doesn’t count — it’s better not to talk about it at all.
And a big one? That’s just a matter of comparison — which means it doesn’t really exist either.
And yet I wanted so badly to be successful at something.
At some point, it didn’t even matter what.
Studying. Fighting. Sucking up. Writing homework for others. Pushing my way forward. Cutting off friendships. Chasing boys — whatever.
Just let it be something worthy of recognition.
But all I was left with was “just.”
And “well, at least.”
And I believed that I had simply been born this way:
with no real talent for anything.
Better not to try at all, to accept mediocrity, and keep my head down.
So I did.
And inside, it tore me apart that I didn’t believe it.
It simply couldn’t be true.
There are so many exciting, brilliant, extraordinary people in the world — around me — and am I really the only one who is this utterly defective?
How the hell did this happen?
Then the doubt that had seeped into me at a cellular level eagerly came to my aid:
“Okay, sure, they’re talented — but look how acne-ridden they are.”
“Yeah, they got that far, but no one even wants to sleep with them.”
“They only got where they are because their father paid for it.”
“Even an idiot could do this.”
I could list these petty cruelties all day long — the ones I learned to spot so effortlessly.
Was this my talent?
Lightning-fast fault-finding?
It became so visceral that at the most important job of my life, my first response to the question
“How can this be solved?”
was always a slow, theatrical shake of the head.
I did solve it in the end — because deep down, I wanted it just as badly —
but first I had to point out all the real and imagined pitfalls.
Because I built my life around flaws.
To prove how many things success depends on.
How many factors lie outside of us.
Things we have no influence over.
Things we can’t fight against.
All we can do is endure the blow when it doesn’t work out for us — again.
After all, I’m that type.
The one who fails.
The one for whom things don’t work out.
The one who allowed the greatest success of her life to be dismissed with:
“Well, don’t be too proud of that…”
And I wasn’t proud anymore.
I threw it away.
Even though when I achieved it, I cried with happiness.
I am unbelievably lucky that I was given a chance to start over.
The price was brain surgery.
The side effect was epilepsy.
But it was worth it.
More than worth it.
Because for someone who gets to come back, nothing is impossible anymore.
The “knowledge” embedded deep in my instincts still pulls me back like lead,
but the will to fight is stronger.
That familiar barrier is always there:
that this still isn’t good enough,
that it can’t be put on display,
but giving up is no longer an option.
Somehow, I began to run into more and more successful people.
People I learned an incredible amount from.
I remember how stunned I was by some of their stories —
when it became clear what kind of knockout blow determination and faith had delivered to millions of obstacles.
And although neither determination nor faith is missing from me,
the doubt is still there.
The voice that shouts loudly:
“Sure, but…”
I haven’t defeated it yet.
But I’ve learned how to handle it.
And there are two small lives
I cannot destroy.
Two lives
for whom I want to be an emotional fortress forever.
A mirror
that constantly reflects their uniqueness and their worth.
I think it was through them that I truly learned this:
I cannot take away other people’s success.
Not even silently. Not even unspoken.
I cannot dull it.
I cannot trivialize it.
Because it belongs to them.
Not to me.
And what belongs to me —
that, I will no longer give away.
Not anymore.