Not Good Enough: My Battle with My Parents’ Expectations

“You’re just lazy, Jake! When are you ever going to do something right?” My dad’s voice cut through the thin walls of our kitchen like a knife. Mom didn’t even look up from her phone. I stood there, clutching my backpack, wishing I could make myself disappear.

I’m Jake Williams, fifteen, and I’ve lived my whole life in the same tiny town in Indiana. We’re the kind of place where the factory whistle tells you when to eat lunch, and your business is everyone’s business. It’s suffocating. Everyone knows me as “the Williams boy”—the one who never quite measures up.

The argument had started over my latest algebra test. I got a C. Not failing, but not good enough for Dad. “Do you even try? Your cousin Scott’s already working at the auto shop and makes more in a week than you’ll ever see. Why can’t you be more like him?”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I just stared at the floor, feeling those words crawl under my skin. Useless. Lazy. Disappointment. I hear them so often, I’ve started to believe them.

After school, I’d usually head to the old skate park just outside of town. My best friend, Tyler, was waiting for me. “Rough morning?” he asked, tossing me a can of Dr. Pepper.

“Same as always. Dad says I’m wasting my life.”

Tyler shrugged. “They just don’t get it, man. My mom keeps asking why I don’t have a plan for college. Like it’s that easy.”

I wanted to tell Tyler that it was more than just pressure—it was like my parents had already decided my story for me, and all I was allowed to do was disappoint them. But I couldn’t say it out loud. I just kicked my board and tried to lose myself in something I was actually good at.

That night, I overheard my parents talking in the living room. “Maybe we should stop coddling him,” Mom whispered. “He needs to understand life’s tough.”

“He needs a wake-up call,” Dad replied. “Or he’ll end up flipping burgers forever.”

I crept back to my room, my chest tight. Was that really all they saw in me? Did they even see me at all?

I started skipping dinner, locking myself in my room with my music turned up loud. Sometimes I imagined just running away—hitching a ride on one of the trucks that rumbled down Main Street toward Indianapolis. But every time I almost did, something stopped me. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was hope that things could change.

One day, our English teacher, Mrs. Carter, handed back our essays. I’d stayed up half the night writing mine. I needed to show someone I wasn’t useless.

She paused by my desk, smiling. “Jake, this was powerful. Do you mind if I share it with the class?”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. No one had ever called my work powerful before. I nodded, trying to hide the tears prickling at my eyes.

Mrs. Carter read my essay—about feeling invisible in your own family, about wanting to matter. When she finished, the room was silent. Then, to my shock, people clapped. Even Tyler grinned at me.

After class, Mrs. Carter pulled me aside. “You have a real voice, Jake. Have you ever thought about joining the school paper?”

I laughed. “My parents barely think I can pass math.”

She squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t let anyone decide your worth for you.”

I wanted to believe her. That night, I told my parents about the essay. Dad barely looked up from his TV. “That’s nice. But writing won’t get you a real job.”

Something inside me snapped. “Maybe not. But at least someone thinks I’m good at something. I’m joining the school paper.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Just don’t let it get in the way of your grades.”

The next few weeks, I threw myself into writing. My articles started getting noticed. Teachers complimented me. Tyler said he’d never seen me so fired up. But at home, nothing changed. Every time I walked in, it was like I was invisible, unless there was something to criticize.

One night, after a heated argument about college, I finally lost it. “Why can’t you just be proud of me? Why is nothing I do ever good enough?”

Dad slammed his fist on the table. “Because the world doesn’t care about your feelings, Jake! It cares about what you can DO.”

I stood up, shaking. “I CAN do something! Just not what you want!”

He glared at me. “You’re being dramatic. Go to your room.”

I did. But this time, I didn’t cry. I started writing—really writing—about what it felt like to never be enough. I sent it to the local paper, not expecting much. Two weeks later, they published it. People started stopping me on the street, saying they saw themselves in my words. Even Scott, my cousin, texted, “That took guts, man. Proud of you.”

Still, my parents barely said a thing. But something changed in me. I realized their approval wasn’t the only thing that mattered. I mattered. My voice mattered.

I don’t know if my parents will ever see me the way I wish they would. But I’m not waiting anymore. I’m carving my own story, sentence by sentence, whether they read it or not.

Sometimes I wonder: how many of us are out there—kids just wanting to be seen? How long will we keep letting others decide what we’re worth?