For most of my life, I’ve felt like I was failing on purpose — but I couldn’t quite name why.

Underneath my decisions, my lifestyle, even the identities I tried on — the skater, the poker player, the one who didn’t care — there was a deeper engine running. Something unconscious. Something defiant. Something sad.

I’ve come to realise that rebellion had become my cage.

Growing up, I wasn’t seen as a separate person. I was used — emotionally, psychologically — as an extension of someone else. My mother didn’t mean to do it maliciously, perhaps, but the result was the same: there was no space for me to exist outside of her expectations. Her anxiety. Her control. Her fragile self-image.

And when you’re raised like that, the only way to scream no is to rebel. Not with words, but with choices. Self-sabotaging ones. Ones that hurt her — and me.

I built a whole internal team whose job was to say: “You can’t control me.”
Even if it meant destroying myself to do it.

I chose subjects at school I didn’t care about. I drifted into hobbies that didn’t fully light me up — not because I loved them, but because she didn’t. Skating. Poker. Being the outsider. Somewhere along the way, it wasn’t about what I wanted — it was about who I wasn’t allowed to be, and how far I could stretch away from her grip.

And yes, some of it was aligned with who I am. There were glimmers of truth, moments of flow. But the draw to those identities? The obsession? That came from the wound — not the self.

What hurts most now is that I made major life decisions — jobs, relationships, even self-image — based on a loyalty to someone who never truly saw me. Someone who didn’t know how to meet me. Someone who probably never even knew how to meet herself.

That loyalty ran deep.

And yet… here I am. Writing this. Feeling it. Naming it.

Which means that pattern no longer owns me.

I’m no longer interested in rebelling just to prove a point. I’m interested in becoming. Not in reaction to anyone — but in service to the person I was always meant to be, before the war for my identity began.

Maybe I’ll still skate. Maybe I’ll play poker. But now it’ll be because I choose it — not because I need to say f** you* to a ghost.

And maybe, just maybe, I can start building a life that isn’t about rebellion at all — but about returning to myself.