Learning to Fail Without Fear

For the longest time, I believed I had to be perfect. Not just good, not just excellent—perfect. Anything less felt like a personal failure, a disappointment, a reason for my parents to disown me.

They never said it outright, but the expectation was woven into every rule, every scolding, every glance of disapproval. Perfection was not a goal; it was the bare minimum.

As a child, failure wasn’t an option. It was met with punishment. A bad grade meant berating. A mistake meant shame. I learned to fear missteps because missteps had consequences. And if failure as a child led to such harshness, what could I possibly expect as an adult?

That fear followed me into adulthood. Every misstep felt catastrophic. Every imperfection felt like proof that I was unworthy—not just of success, but of love, belonging, and acceptance. The idea loomed over me like a shadow: If my own parents, the people who raised me, could discard me for not being perfect, what did that say about my worth?

My parents wanted the illusion of a perfect life. Perfect children. Perfect home. Perfect achievements. We showed the world only the polished version of ourselves, and anything less was discarded, ignored, or hidden. I became an expert at pretending. I tiptoed around my faults, buried my struggles, and hid every imperfection like a dirty secret.

For years, I let that fear dictate my life. I avoided risks, second-guessed myself, and clung to an impossible standard. I stuck with my job, I tried to “find a husband,” and I followed every unwritten rule that was supposed to guarantee happiness. But instead of happiness, I found burnout. I felt suffocated, trapped in an empty pit of despair I couldn’t escape.

I wasn’t just failing in my parents' eyes. I felt the failure in myself.

The Breaking Point 

So, I did the one thing I had never allowed myself to do: I quit. I walked away from my job, my expectations, my fear. I moved to a different country. I became a yoga teacher in Europe. And in the moments where I had nothing left to lose, I found the freedom to start creating a world of my own.

Escaping that fear didn’t happen overnight. But instead of letting it consume me, I let it go. Not because it was easy, but because carrying it any longer would have crushed me. 

I built a world where failure wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but something to learn from. A world where I could exist beyond my parents' expectations. A world where I could simply be me. A world that I am still building. 

For years, resentment consumed me. The need for my parents' approval, the fear of their rejection—it dictated my every move. But over time, I began to loosen its grip. My parents still don’t know the extent of my failures, but the difference is, I no longer need their validation to be happy.

Slowly, I let go of the fear they instilled in me and replaced it with something of my own: the belief that failure isn’t the opposite of success—it’s part of it. I gave myself the hope to move on. Instead of letting their expectations define me, I built a life where their approval no longer held power over my happiness.

I once believed that failing would make me unlovable. Now, I see the truth: my ability to fail—and keep going—is what makes me strong.

I am no longer chasing perfection. But now, I am just creating a world where I am safe from judgment—where I can exist, flawed and human, without fear. And in that world, things don’t have to be perfect. They just have to be real.

What would you do differently if you weren’t afraid of failing? Are you living for yourself, or are you living for someone else’s expectations?