The Day I Realised I Could Never Have Got It Right...

For years, I thought that if I just tried harder, we would eventually understand each other. Maybe I needed to communicate more clearly. Be less sensitive. Read another book. Take another Nonviolent Communication course. If I could just explain it well enough, surely one day my family would say, "You're right. We really didn't mean it that way."

Until one afternoon last winter. After a yin yoga class, I was lying in Savasana when a single thought shot through my body like lightning.

Jacqueline... no matter what you had done or said, it would never have been good enough.

Even if you had been Mother Teresa, they would still have found a reason to tell you that you were doing something wrong, that you were too sensitive, too difficult, too dramatic, or that you had misunderstood everything again. I literally felt something break inside my body and burst into tears. Not just because of the sadness, but mostly because of the relief. Because if it had never been about my behaviour, I could finally stop trying so hard. I didn't have to find yet another way to make myself understood. I no longer had to become someone who was finally good enough.

And that... felt like freedom.

Only much later did I discover that this dynamic wasn't unique at all. In many families with emotionally immature parents, fixed roles unconsciously begin to emerge. Not because anyone decides they should, but because a family will always try to maintain a fragile balance.

The Hero
Performs, takes responsibility and tries to keep the family together.

The Scapegoat
Gets blamed and is often the first to point out what isn't right.

The Caretaking Child
Takes care of everyone else's emotions and forgets about themselves.

The Lost Child
Makes themselves invisible so they won't become an extra burden.

These roles aren't fixed; they can change throughout your life. I think I've played every single one of them. When I was little, the role of Scapegoat had already been taken. Later, that slowly changed.

What I didn't know back then was that, as the Scapegoat, you can never really win. If you say black, they say white. If you say white, they say black. And the moment you point that out, the same pattern usually begins. "I never said that." "Ooooh, that's not what I meant." "You're always so sensitive." "That's not how it happened. You always have such a vivid imagination." "You always want attention."

When I stood up for myself as a child, my mother would often say:"Well, you'd better never have children, because you're far too selfish." Years later, when I told her as a teenager that I didn't want children after all, her response was: "How awful. That's so selfish." It took me many years to realise that I was wrong either way.

I was also regularly told that I "always wanted attention." The irony was that hearing that made me share less and less with my parents. Not because we were never together or never talked, but because I had learned from a very young age that my feelings didn't really have a place. "Oh, are you going to cry now? Do you think that's going to make you right?" Or: "If you're going to be angry, you can go to your room without dinner. I'll count to three, and otherwise I'll kick you upstairs." That's how I learned to push my feelings further and further away. I thought this was how every family was together.

Whenever I shared something, I often felt unheard or dismissed. Sometimes they responded as if they were hearing it for the first time, even though I had already told them before. There were also things they knew had happened, but never asked about again. Gradually, I started keeping everything to myself, because the very last thing I wanted was to be a burden or to ask for attention.

Even much later, during my burnout, that same pattern repeated itself. I honestly told my father over the phone how badly I was doing. A little later, my mother joined the conversation and asked: "So... how is Jacqueline doing?" Before I even had the chance to answer, my father replied: "Oh, she's fine." I didn't say another word.

For a long time, I believed all of this was intentional. These days, I see it with more nuance. Of course, manipulation exists, but more often than not, it isn't part of some evil master plan. People don't wake up in the morning thinking, "Today I'm going to emotionally damage my children." Emotionally immature people simply cannot bear the pain of facing the impact of their own behaviour. Their self-image is too fragile, so the child's reality has to make room for the parent's.

The labels they give you are fear in disguise. They are the script they've been using for years to make you question your own reality.

"Attention" is their code word for "you refuse to stay invisible."

"Fantasy" is their way of dismissing pain they don't want to face.

Whether this comes from conscious manipulation or emotional immaturity, the effect is often the same: you slowly begin to doubt your own reality. In psychology, this dynamic is often described as gaslighting. I simply call it an attack on your inner compass. You become confused. At first, you think the other person has misunderstood you. Then you start defending yourself. Eventually, you give up. You begin to doubt yourself. You stop trusting your memories. Your feelings. Your intuition. And that doesn't automatically stop once you become an adult.

Perhaps that was the greatest discovery of my healing journey. Not only that it had never really been about me, but also that they would probably never change. It was complete acceptance of what is.

There is another pattern that I now recognise with crystal clarity. First, you're pulled in. You receive attention or a compliment and, for a moment, you feel seen. But the moment you begin to relax, you're put down again. Or someone starts speaking badly about another family member, or about someone you love. Love is constantly alternated with rejection. It's an emotional rollercoaster that can become incredibly addictive. You keep hoping that if you just try a little harder, this time the love will last, but it rarely does.

In the end, that yoga class taught me perhaps the most important lesson of my life. You cannot control how other people see you. You cannot force someone to take responsibility for their behaviour. You cannot make someone finally understand you.

But you can decide where you want to invest your energy from now on.

For me, freedom began the moment I stopped trying to convince someone else of my truth. From that moment on, all I had to do was remain true to myself.

And for the very first time... That turned out to be enough.

And honestly?

It turned out to be far lighter than spending a lifetime trying to be good enough. 

❤️

Reflection

Which family role do you recognise yourself in?

What might change in your life if, from today onwards, you stopped trying to finally be "good enough"?