“No Matter What I Do, I Still Feel Behind”
“I work hard. I’ve hit milestones people said I should be proud of. But I don’t feel proud—I feel late. Behind. Like everyone else is already there, wherever “there” is. I don’t even know who I’m comparing myself to anymore. I just know it never feels like enough.”
Dear Mei,
That feeling—of always being behind, of chasing a moving target, of never quite arriving—is one of the quietest forms of suffering I know. It doesn't scream. It hums underneath everything. It shadows even your successes. It turns moments that should feel like arrival into brief stopovers before you start running again.
I read your words and felt the familiar ache of internalized pressure. Of timelines we didn’t make but still measure ourselves against. Of a life that’s technically “on track” by some definition, but never quite enough by our own. Except the problem is, the voice that says you're behind rarely even belongs to us. It’s usually inherited.
Maybe it came from family. From a culture that linked achievement with worth, obedience with identity, and milestones with love. Maybe it came from school, where being the best wasn’t celebrated—it was expected. Or from a community where everyone’s success feels like a mirror reflecting your own inadequacy.
Maybe it came from being told, explicitly or implicitly, that your value was conditional. Conditional on grades, or titles, or the face you show the world. Conditional on making your parents proud. Or doing better than they did. Or carrying the weight of everything they sacrificed.
I want to name something here gently and clearly: when you grow up in an immigrant family, or in a culture with strong collective expectations, being behind doesn’t just mean being off-schedule—it can feel like a betrayal. A failure to live up to the dream. A dishonoring of those who came before you. And even if no one says it out loud, you carry it. You carry all of it.
So of course it feels heavy. Of course you can’t stop. Of course rest feels like laziness, and enough feels suspicious, and success feels fleeting. You were taught to reach. To push. To stay vigilant. Because your worth was tied not just to who you are, but to what you achieve. And even now, as an adult, it’s hard to untangle that wiring.
But here’s the truth underneath all of this: you are not behind. You are just inside a system that doesn’t let anyone feel caught up. You are comparing yourself to a mirage—a version of life that exists only in fragments, filtered through social media, holiday cards, and the highlight reels of people you’ve never truly known.
And even when you do “catch up,” the finish line moves.
That’s the trap of internalized capitalism, perfectionism, and cultural performance. The goal is never met. The bar is never still. So no matter how much you do, it’s never enough to grant you the feeling of enoughness.
But it’s not because you haven’t done enough.
It’s because you were never taught how to feel enough.
There’s a name for this too: ambition fatigue. The emotional exhaustion that comes not from failure, but from constant striving. From the relentless pursuit of something that’s always just out of reach. From being so wired to achieve that you’ve never been given permission to just exist. To feel proud without a footnote. To rest without earning it.
And so, you burn out—not from doing too little, but from never believing it’s okay to stop.
Mei, I want to ask you something, and I ask it tenderly: if you never achieved another thing again, who would you be? Could you still be good? Could you still be loved? Could you still belong?
If that question feels scary, that’s not a flaw—it’s a clue. A clue that your value has been tethered to conditions for too long. A clue that you deserve a life where your being matters more than your proving.
And I know, that feels far away right now. Especially in a world, and perhaps a family, where achievement wasn’t just expected—it was survival. But the unlearning starts in moments like this. When you pause long enough to notice the ache. To say, This isn’t peace. This is performance.
Start by naming the things you’ve done. All of them. Not just the awards or degrees or titles. But the emotional labor. The ways you’ve held yourself together. The moments no one saw. The mornings you got up anyway. The decisions you made without applause. The resilience that no resume will ever capture.
And then ask yourself what would feel nourishing—not impressive. What would feel meaningful—not marketable. What would feel like you—even if no one clapped for it.
Because that’s the real work now. Not catching up to someone else’s idea of success. But remembering your own definition of wholeness.
You are not behind, Mei.
You are in the exact place your life is unfolding. And it is not late. It is not wrong. It is yours.
With so much respect,
–RJ