“Were you allowed to feel—or were you only allowed to perform? 🚩 Many of us living with anxiety today were children who learned that silence was safer than honesty and that worth was tied to a report card. This post dives into the ‘monster’ of academic pressure and the high cost of growing up where feelings were optional. If you’re currently unlearning the need to be ‘fine’ all the time, this story is for you.”
Disclaimer: I write from lived experience, not professional authority. This space is for connection and reflection, not diagnosis or treatment. If you need support, please speak to a trained mental health professional.
By the time I reached the 10th standard, the exam had already grown a personality.
It wasn’t just an exam. It was a bhayanak rakshas—a monster that decided your worth, your future, and apparently your right to exist with dignity.
We were trained for this fear early. I first heard about it in the 4th standard. That was the year we learned that some tests were not just tests—they were warnings. By the time I reached the 10th, it felt like a war I was expected to win without showing fear, confusion, or fatigue.
My parents were especially worried about me. Somewhere around the 8th standard, I changed.
From 5th to 7th, I was talkative, funny, always surrounded by people. Then something shifted. I became quiet. Reserved. I started living more inside my head than outside it. I thought about society, the universe, its beginning and possible end. I thought about the purpose of life as explained in scriptures—and how badly those explanations collided with the real world.
Nothing made sense. Elders spoke with certainty, but their certainties contradicted each other. I didn’t know whom to believe. I didn’t even know whether to trust my own instincts. Even today, after using every bit of intelligence I have, I still don’t know exactly why that change happened. Maybe adolescence. Maybe anxiety learning how to speak. Maybe both.
As if this inner confusion wasn’t enough, another disturbance entered my life—quietly, beautifully, and disastrously.
A new girl joined our school in the 8th standard, in a different section. She had come from a metropolitan city because of her father’s transfer. From the first day, teachers paid attention to her. She spoke differently. Carried herself differently. Excelled effortlessly—in academics and extracurriculars.
Since the 5th standard, I had been the topper. The adored one. And suddenly, the spotlight moved.
I didn’t know how to share it.
Among the boys, she became a topic of endless discussion—for reasons that had little to do with intellect. It was 1993, a small town, and simply talking to the opposite gender was enough to be judged. My friends gave her a nickname: Coconut Tree.
Then came the science exhibition. I presented a water-level indicator. She presented a project on electrical and magnetic properties of materials. Boys crowded around her desk, pretending to care about physics. They came back annoyed, calling her arrogant because she spoke confidently.
They wanted to mock her.
They wanted a question she couldn’t answer.
I gave them one.
She struggled to explain why copper conducts electricity better than iron but is less magnetic. My friends laughed. And yes—I felt pleased. I had proved I was still better.
That pleasure didn’t last long.
Through a strange series of coincidences—a judo-karate class, a thirsty walk, a younger brother—I found myself at her house. The scent of incense mixed with something unfamiliar. She stood at the gate in a violet gown, smiling gently, hair open, voice calm.
She asked me directly if I had spoken ill about her.
I denied it. Honestly or conveniently—I don’t know. Days later, I confronted her about something similar. Instead of bitterness, we laughed. We spoke openly. We understood each other.
That was the day my jealousy dissolved.
She wasn’t arrogant. She wasn’t cold. She was just new, different, and alone—like I was in my own way. Whoever tried to create distance between us only succeeded in bringing us closer.
We fell in love quietly.
No phones. No messages. Just stolen moments in public places and exchanged glances that felt heavier than words. When she smiled at me, my chest felt light. Gravity loosened its grip. At the time, I didn’t know about dopamine or oxytocin. I just knew that for the first time, my inner chaos paused.
The world, however, did not approve.
Teachers, parents, friends—everyone warned me about distractions, about love, about ruining my future. A teacher once came to my house and asked bluntly if we were having an affair. I was shocked. I denied it. And yet, everything around me made me feel guilty—like I was doing something antisocial, dangerous, and irresponsible.
No one asked how I felt.
They only told me what I should not feel.
We disappointed our parents and teachers with our 10th standard results. The monster had claimed its victims. But one teacher from another school said something that saved me:
“10th is not a big deal. The real turning point is the 12th.”
I held onto that sentence for two years. Worked hard. And eventually, I found myself in MNIT Jaipur—one of the most prestigious engineering institutes in India.
From the outside, it looked like success.
From the inside, the rules had already formed:
Be strong.
Don’t feel too much.
Don’t fail.
Don’t rest.
Today, I am 46. I live with mixed anxiety–depressive disorder. My career and relationships carry disappointments I never imagined back then. And yet, when I look back, I don’t see rebellion or irresponsibility.
I see a child who learned very early that achievement mattered more than emotion, that love was a threat to success, and that silence was safer than honesty.
I’m still unlearning that.
A gentle question to sit with:
When you think about your younger self, were you allowed to feel—or were you only allowed to perform?
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