But honestly, the grades weren’t the only thing weighing me down. There was something heavier, something I kept avoiding but couldn’t push aside any longer—my family. For reasons I still can’t fully comprehend, my siblings barely speak to me anymore. We used to be close, but now, it’s as if I don’t exist. I’ve become a stranger in my own family, a ghost they choose to ignore. I’d catch myself wondering, “What did I do wrong?” Was there a specific moment, some argument or misunderstanding I missed? I couldn’t help but feel like I had failed them in some invisible way, and that failure cut deeper than the grades ever could.

The silence between us was louder than words. Every time we were together, it felt like we were trapped in this awkward dance, avoiding real conversation. Every question I asked them seemed to be met with short, cold answers. It wasn’t just that they didn’t talk to me; it was like they didn’t want to. The more I thought about it, the more frustrated I became. Why couldn’t they just say something? Why did it feel like I was always the one reaching out, the one trying to fix things?

And then, amidst all that frustration and confusion, something clicked. I was so focused on them—on their silence, their distance—that I wasn’t looking at myself. My mind had been preoccupied with trying to figure them out, trying to make them act a certain way, or say the things I needed to hear. I wanted them to show me I wasn’t a mistake, to validate me. But in doing so, I had lost sight of something critical: I can’t control them. I can’t mold people into something I expect them to be.

I had been putting all my energy into controlling situations and people that were completely out of my control. It wasn’t their responsibility to give me the validation I was seeking. I was the one making the mistake of assuming they could solve my feelings of inadequacy. I was expecting more from them than they were capable of giving.

It became clear that part of the problem was our communication—or lack of it. We weren’t really talking, not about the things that mattered. I was too focused on the surface-level conversations, too scared to dig deeper and address the real issues head-on. I wanted things to change without doing the uncomfortable work of having difficult conversations, of being vulnerable with them about how I was really feeling. And they, in turn, seemed to avoid any conversation that might lead to confrontation or discomfort. We were all walking on eggshells, pretending everything was fine while avoiding the elephant in the room.

In that moment, I realized I’d been chasing the wrong things—grades, approval, validation—when what I really needed was clarity. I needed to step back, take a breath, and stop expecting others to fix what I could only fix within myself. I needed to stop letting their silence define my self-worth. My siblings might not be able to give me what I’m looking for right now, and that’s okay. I had to focus on myself, on what I can control—my mindset, my choices, my path forward.

And so, standing there, overwhelmed by both academic pressure and the strain in my family relationships, I made a decision: it’s time to recharge. To refocus. I’ve been running on empty, trying to manage things that are out of my hands, and it’s draining me. I need to take a step back, breathe, and prioritize what’s truly important—my mental health, my well-being, and the goals I’ve set for myself. I can’t fix everything, and I can’t make people act the way I want them to. But I can shift my attention, reclaim my energy, and start rebuilding me. It’s time to let go of what I can’t control and focus on what I can: my own growth.

The room felt suffocating, and I could feel my shirt sticking to my skin as the heat turned my concentration to mush. The professor’s voice was a blur—somewhere in the background but nowhere near my focus. My mind kept drifting back to the same cycle of thoughts, over and over again. I was three grades behind, and despite all my effort, the exams seemed impossible. No matter how much I studied, no matter how many nights I sacrificed, they still felt like walls I couldn’t scale. It was like every attempt I made to catch up pushed me further behind.

But honestly, the grades weren’t the only thing weighing me down. There was something heavier, something I kept avoiding but couldn’t push aside any longer—my family. For reasons I still can’t fully comprehend, my siblings barely speak to me anymore. We used to be close, but now, it’s as if I don’t exist. I’ve become a stranger in my own family, a ghost they choose to ignore. I’d catch myself wondering, “What did I do wrong?” Was there a specific moment, some argument or misunderstanding I missed? I couldn’t help but feel like I had failed them in some invisible way, and that failure cut deeper than the grades ever could.

The silence between us was louder than words. Every time we were together, it felt like we were trapped in this awkward dance, avoiding real conversation. Every question I asked them seemed to be met with short, cold answers. It wasn’t just that they didn’t talk to me; it was like they didn’t want to. The more I thought about it, the more frustrated I became. Why couldn’t they just say something? Why did it feel like I was always the one reaching out, the one trying to fix things?

And then, amidst all that frustration and confusion, something clicked. I was so focused on them—on their silence, their distance—that I wasn’t looking at myself. My mind had been preoccupied with trying to figure them out, trying to make them act a certain way, or say the things I needed to hear. I wanted them to show me I wasn’t a mistake, to validate me. But in doing so, I had lost sight of something critical: I can’t control them. I can’t mold people into something I expect them to be.

I had been putting all my energy into controlling situations and people that were completely out of my control. It wasn’t their responsibility to give me the validation I was seeking. I was the one making the mistake of assuming they could solve my feelings of inadequacy. I was expecting more from them than they were capable of giving.

It became clear that part of the problem was our communication—or lack of it. We weren’t really talking, not about the things that mattered. I was too focused on the surface-level conversations, too scared to dig deeper and address the real issues head-on. I wanted things to change without doing the uncomfortable work of having difficult conversations, of being vulnerable with them about how I was really feeling. And they, in turn, seemed to avoid any conversation that might lead to confrontation or discomfort. We were all walking on eggshells, pretending everything was fine while avoiding the elephant in the room.

In that moment, I realized I’d been chasing the wrong things—grades, approval, validation—when what I really needed was clarity. I needed to step back, take a breath, and stop expecting others to fix what I could only fix within myself. I needed to stop letting their silence define my self-worth. My siblings might not be able to give me what I’m looking for right now, and that’s okay. I had to focus on myself, on what I can control—my mindset, my choices, my path forward.

And so, standing there, overwhelmed by both academic pressure and the strain in my family relationships, I made a decision: it’s time to recharge. To refocus. I’ve been running on empty, trying to manage things that are out of my hands, and it’s draining me. I need to take a step back, breathe, and prioritize what’s truly important—my mental health, my well-being, and the goals I’ve set for myself. I can’t fix everything, and I can’t make people act the way I want them to. But I can shift my attention, reclaim my energy, and start rebuilding me. It’s time to let go of what I can’t control and focus on what I can: my own growth.