Perfection Was a Cage

Chapter 2 – Essay

What does it truly mean to live as “perfect” in a world that measures worth by scores, awards, and achievements? This essay is a reckoning with the silence and exhaustion perfection demands, and the breaking point when it all becomes too much.

I was the kind of girl who cried over a 99.
Not because I was dramatic, but because I knew someone would ask:
“What happened to the other point?”

Perfection wasn’t a goal—it was the baseline. An A wasn’t something to celebrate but something expected. While other kids cheered for not getting an F or did victory dances for the honor roll, I’d be in the corner dissecting a single mistake like it was a crime scene.

I earned that “perfect student” label the hard way. I memorized textbooks cover to cover—plus four that weren’t even on the syllabus. I did every assignment, then made up extra ones just in case. The next day I’d show up for the test like I hadn’t broken a sweat, casually eating ice cream while others crammed last-minute notes. I learned early on: show no struggle.

Winning wasn’t enough. Looking effortless was part of the job.

And most of the time, I did. When test papers were handed back in order of rank, mine came first. No applause. Just a quiet moment when everyone turned to see who was on top. That one second—silent, clinical, unmistakable—meant everything. It was proof that I mattered. That I was good. That I could exhale.

When I was ten, I won a bronze medal for the Philippines in an international math competition. I stood on stage, received a plaque from the president, and tried to feel proud. But when I got home, my parents barely looked up. “Don’t tell anyone,” they said. “It’s not gold.”

No one asked if I was tired.

On paper, I was a dream child. The girl who never rebelled, never broke rules, never gave anyone a reason to worry. I got into a university in the U.S., then business school at Harvard. Everything looked immaculate—like my awards stacked in the perfect order. But what no one tells you is that a polished surface, if you stare long enough, becomes a mirror. And eventually, I couldn’t tell what was me and what was just the reflection.

Because it wasn’t just the grades. I held myself to impossible standards in everything. I followed through even when I wanted to leave. I kept my word even when others didn’t. I silenced the wild, messy, creative parts of me because they didn’t fit the image I’d built. When I attended the top private university in my country and majored in something I hated, I wanted to fail—just to feel something real. But no. I got straight A’s again. Because that’s what I did. That’s who I was.

Success didn’t make me feel proud. It made me feel like I was constantly auditioning for a role I never chose. Like some invisible god was keeping score, tallying my worth by how much I worked, how little I slept, how perfectly I performed. And without realizing it, I was living for him.

Until one day, I broke.

Looking back, I’m grateful for it. My mom pushed the wrong button one too many times, and something in me cracked. I remember grabbing a pencil and snapping it in half—the graphite split like a metaphor I didn’t yet have words for. I realized then: I looked like a pristine pencil on the outside, full of promise and potential. But inside, I was already broken.

Another vivid memory: my graduation. I had to walk onstage seven separate times to collect seven different awards—Valedictorian, Best in Science, Best in Conduct, and a few others I don’t even remember. They could’ve let me stay on stage. But no. I had to keep going up and down, through the back and around to the front, flashing the same practiced smile. That day, I remember something inside me whispering:

I am not a God damn machine.

But I didn’t know how to stop.
So I didn’t.

I carried that perfection into adulthood. Became the model employee. First to volunteer. Last to leave. Working unpaid overtime like it was a badge of honor. One day, I asked for a 3% raise—less than my rent had increased. They said no. They knew I wouldn’t leave.

I kept thinking: if I just worked hard enough, someone would notice, right? But they didn’t. Two years in, I looked around and realized every boss was still a man. One of them even pulled me aside and said, “You’ve been leaving earlier than some of your teammates.” I was staying till 8 PM. I almost laughed.

So, maybe now you understand why I sent that two-week notice.

What people didn’t see was the version of me lying awake at night, wired and exhausted, wondering what it would take to feel whole. Wondering when I’d finally earned the right to rest.

Because beneath the accolades was a girl who learned to keep bending so the world wouldn’t break her. A girl who was taught to earn everything—respect, safety, belonging—even when others were handed those things for free.

And maybe, if I’d been allowed to run wild once in a while, they would’ve seen the rest of me. The version that sings too loud, makes messes, naps in the afternoon, writes poetry in the margins, and watches cheesy movies alone in the dark. The version that didn’t want to be perfect. Just real. Just whole.

Perfection is quiet.
Sterile.
Applauded.
But never touched.

And in chasing it, I forgot how to rest.
I forgot how to feel.

Until the forgetting unraveled—
and everything I held together
finally came undone.