Seeking Validation

Much of my childhood was spent on a relentless quest—one that spanned the entirety of my existence—a quest for validation from a mother whose approval was as elusive as the wind.

From my earliest memories, I yearned for the affirmation that only a mother's love could provide. But she held it as if it were a sacred chalice. The hunger for her approval became a constant undercurrent, shaping the contours of my identity in ways I could not fully comprehend.

The earliest recollection I have is of a crayon-scribbled masterpiece that I excitedly presented to her. It was a reflection of my innocent creativity, a gift that held the purity of a child's heart. But her response was not one of encouragement or celebration. Instead, she critiqued the imperfections, the colors that strayed beyond the lines, and in that moment, the seed planted.

As I grew older, the need for my mother's approval became a driving force, steering the ship of my decisions and actions. Academic achievements were not pursuits of knowledge but endeavors to grasp the fleeting acknowledgment in her eyes. Relationships were not formed for love but for the mirage of validation that I hoped to find in her words.

The hunger manifested in various aspects of my life, like an insatiable void that could never be filled. I became a relentless chasing accolades and accomplishments in a bid to prove my worth. Success was not a cause for personal celebration but a bargaining chip in the transactional relationship I shared with her.

One poignant memory remains etched deep my mind—a high school graduation ceremony that should have been a moment of triumph. As I walked across the stage to receive my diploma, my eyes instinctively sought hers in the audience. But instead of pride, I found indifference. The weight of her unspoken disappointment settled like a stone in my chest, overshadowing the achievements I had worked so hard to attain.

The pursuit of validation also found its way into my relationships. I sought partners who mirrored the traits I believed my mother would approve of—ambitious, successful, and always in control. Yet, no matter how closely I adhered to this carefully curated script, the validation I craved remained elusive. The relationships became a distorted reflection of my desperate yearning, each one unraveling under the weight of my unmet expectations.

My mind so often wanders back to my childhood home and I can almost taste the air as heavy as it used to be with unspoken words, a silent battlefield where my quest for validation faced its sternest adversary: my mother. 

I remember sitting on the edge of my childhood bed, the room that held the echoes of countless moments tainted by the elusive nature of her approval. Those were the years when innocence reigned, and the idea of a mother's love was as simple as a bedtime story. But over time, that fairy tale had crumbled, revealing the jagged edges of reality. My mother seemed to extract joy from my desperate pursuit of her elusive validation. 

Sometimes I sit in the sepulchral silence of my room now decades later, and memories surface like fragile bubbles bursting one by one. I remember the school play, when my heart swelled with excitement as I stepped onto the stage, eyes scanning the audience for her approving smile. Instead, I found her gaze fixed on her phone, indifferent to my desperate attempts to seek acknowledgment.

I would be lying if I said that the ache of those moments lingers no more. It does, mingled with the scent of nostalgia that still hangs in the air. The scars have only faded, worn by time much like my attempts to win her favor.

As I venture into the depths of my internal struggle, a heavy realization settles within me like an unwelcome guest. The external validation I relentlessly pursued, like a mirage on the horizon, would never have quenched the thirst for approval that echoed through my soul. It was an elusive elixir that left me parched in a desert of emotional desolation.

The vulnerability I felt was palpable, a tender ache that pulsed with every beat of my heart. I yearned for a connection, a bridge over the chasm that seemed to widen each time I sought her approval. It was a yearning I'd carried since childhood, a yearning that whispered of a mother's love and reassurance.

I have, over the years, allowed myself to confront the emotional toll of this perpetual seeking. The void left by her withholding has echoed across my life louder than any words she could utter. The emotional weight of this quest molded me into a mosaic of insecurities and self-doubt, a reflection of the distorted image she held up to me.

I still grapple with the realization that the approval I sought might forever elude me. The melancholic tone of my internal monologue reverberates against the walls of this hull, each word a testament to the wounds etched upon my soul.

In the midst of this emotional tempest, I glimpsed a fragile understanding. The journey toward self-validation, though daunting, holds the promise of healing. Perhaps with time, I shall truly untangle myself from the web of her expectations and find solace not in her elusive approval but within the depths of my own being.