We were drinking a Margarita, and he explained it to me once again: “Problems never really disappear,” he said. “At best, they just get better.”
— Fragment from The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by Mark Manson
Everything in my daughter’s life was unraveling. The days when she went to school with a smile and came home full of stories about her day felt like a distant memory. The breakup with her best friend hit her hard. This girl, once her safe place, had turned into one of the popular kids—and against her. It was heartbreaking to watch that friendship transform into bullying, with my daughter as the target. The pain she carried ran deep, and it began to show in ways that made me, as a mother, shudder. In many ways, it pulled me right back into my own childhood, into memories of being bullied. I used to play with all the neighborhood kids, but my heart belonged to one special friend. From kindergarten until I was ten, she was my person, my partner in adventure. We could spend hours roller skating, moving so in sync it felt like we were one, losing ourselves in imaginary worlds where we were princes and princesses, inventing our own fairy tales filled with castles, dragons, and magic. When she emigrated to a faraway country, that friendship ended abruptly. It left a hole in my world, as if my safe haven had vanished overnight, as if someone had drained all the color from my fairy tale. That loss stayed with me as both a cherished and painful memory.
It took time before I was able to build new friendships after she left. Children can be brutally honest. “You never played with us, only with her, so go away!” they told me. It cut deep, leaving me feeling completely alone. Eventually, I did find new friends, but the path there was uneven, full of bumps and setbacks. It wasn’t easy. My drooping eye often became a target for teasing. “Cross-eyed!” they would shout. It made me furious—I wasn’t cross-eyed at all—but apparently, they needed something to pick on. I underwent multiple surgeries because the muscle in my eyelid was too long, and doctors shortened it so my eye could open properly. At birth, that eye had been closed, and no one even knew there was an eye behind it. So yes, I was born with a wink—literally. And even though the bullying hurt, I learned to hold my head high, carrying that wink like a quiet kind of strength. My mother always stood up for me when I was bullied. Whether it helped or not, I don’t know, but she was always there. She even lashed out at the lifeguard when I failed my swimming certificate B, calling him out angrily because he said I didn’t swim deep enough, even though I could feel the bottom scraping against my stomach. That was my mother—fierce when it came to her children.
After we moved to a different town, I started at a new school. I thought maybe this was my chance to finally belong, maybe even to become a little bit popular. Starting fifth grade felt like a fresh beginning. I immediately noticed a girl who was being picked on, and I decided to stand up for her. It made me feel strong, brave even. We became friends, but instead of gaining acceptance, we ended up being bullied together. In sixth grade, things shifted slightly, and I managed to form new friendships with other girls. We shared happy moments, laughter, and small adventures. Later, that same girl who had been bullied became seriously ill with a stomach ulcer. My thoughts went straight back to the bullying. Could that constant pressure have made her sick? I don’t know for sure—I’m not a doctor—but I believe it must have played a role.
My daughter found new friends too, but there was one in particular who worried me. There was something about her, something that didn’t sit right with me, an influence I would have preferred to keep out of my daughter’s life. But what could I do? My daughter gravitated more and more toward her, and I could feel my grip slipping away. Her transition to secondary school marked a new phase, but not the fresh start I had hoped for. She began skipping classes, withdrawing more and more, disappearing into a dark world of self-harm. The sharp lines on her arms were silent yet piercing signs of her inner struggle. She became depressed, and I, her mother, could do nothing but watch from a distance, feeling utterly powerless. Social media became my only window into her life, the only way I could still keep some kind of connection. She came home less and less, drifted further and further away from me. Her new friend became her world, and I felt excluded, as if she was slipping beyond my reach. Nights were the hardest. I would lie awake, worrying about her, about everything that was going wrong, about how I could possibly reach her—but how do you reach someone who won’t let you in?
Her school assessment had indicated she was capable of a pre-university track, but in reality, that level turned out to be too much for her, and she wanted to take two steps back—not to a general track, but further down. We agreed. Anything to ease the pressure she was under, anything to help her find joy in school again. It struck me how different it had been for me. My final year of primary school had been filled with anticipation and change. We all knew we were about to become freshmen in a new school, and that made everything feel charged. The standardized test loomed ahead, and everyone was nervous. My parents had high expectations, and I felt the pressure to succeed. When the results came, I had scored high enough for an advanced track. I was overjoyed. Finally, proof that I could do more, be more. I imagined myself there, in a new classroom, meeting new friends, discovering new subjects, stepping into a bigger world. But that excitement quickly dissolved when my teacher gave his advice: a lower level. According to him, I made too many small mistakes, and he believed that level would suit me better. I was outraged and disappointed. How could he say that after my results? My parents trusted his professional judgment and followed his advice, believing he knew what was best for me.
For weeks, I was furious. It felt like my dreams had been taken away, like no one believed in my potential. I went to school reluctantly, weighed down by frustration, convinced my future had been limited by that decision. But that anger also fueled something in me. It awakened a determination to prove that I was capable of more than what others saw. And perhaps that is why, with my daughter, the most important thing for me became listening to what she wanted for her education—because I knew what it felt like to carry that pressure, to have your path decided for you. ❤️
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