The Weight of Being "Serious": How Growing Up as an Overachiever Almost Killed Me.

I have spent most of my life chasing perfection. It wasn’t a conscious choice—it was demanded, praised, rewarded. Moving across countries and through nine different schools because of my parents’ academic careers, I had no choice but to adapt quickly. Each time, I had to start from scratch, sometimes even to learn a new language, and prove myself again. And I did. I became an A student, not just in the way they expected, but beyond that.

In Germany, where the best grade is a 1, I received 1+ because I exceeded expectations. In Greece, where the top grade is a 20, I earned 20+. I was the best in class, in sports, in competitions. When I ran races, I won gold—even with an injured tendon. I received the Ehrenurkunde, an award so rare that no one, boy or girl, had won one in a decade. The volleyball teams wanted me, the math teams wanted me, the art teams wanted me. My teachers pushed me into every possible competition, calling me the most disciplined student they had ever seen.

I was never late. I never missed an assignment. I did what was expected of me. And for every praise I received, for every award, every applause, another nail was hammered into a coffin I hadn’t realized I was lying in.

At some point, I began to pray—not for happiness, not for a future I dreamed of—but for success, no matter the cost. Let me win this race, and it’s okay if I die. Let me get this A, and it’s okay if I die.

As a child, I dressed in dark, punkish clothes. Teachers initially ignored me because I didn’t look like a model student. When I changed schools, I saw how powerful first impressions were. So I changed. I forced myself into the role they expected. I wore glasses, dressed neatly, looked "proper." It worked. They saw me as a prodigy, an exemplary student. But what they didn’t see were the scars I carved into myself by abandoning who I really was.

Denying myself for the sake of acceptance became a wound that never quite healed.

And it didn’t stop at school.

Jobs, events, even casual outings—people always had expectations. Dress posher. Wear makeup. Act serious. But now, I refuse. Because I know the price of compliance is too high: it is the slow erosion of self.

I never tried to be a serious adult. I had tried to be a serious kid because that’s what they wanted from me, but by the time I turned 18 and entered university, I had already realized the harm it had done. My body and mind were breaking. I wasn’t just exhausted—I was empty.

At university, I was a shell of myself. I was just trying to survive. I could barely eat. I could barely leave my flat. I had spent years forcing myself into an image of discipline, control, and perfection, and when I finally broke free from it, I was left with nothing but anxiety and an overwhelming fear of failure.

It has taken me years to reconstruct my mental health, to unlearn the suffocating weight of expectations. I no longer wanted people to expect things from me. I don’t want to live my life as a machine of discipline, excellence, and composure.

I want to create.

But even that was discouraged. You can’t make money from art, they said. It’s not a serious career.

They told me to do art as a hobby. A hobby.

I my studies, love psychology. I love forensic psychology. I love my PhD research. But I wanted to do it my way, not the way they expected me to. They wanted me to be serious. But I refuse to be another stiff, humorless academic who strips their work of creativity and life.

Now, of course, I make money from my art—because that’s what I wanted all along. I make money from writing books. I make money from what they told me was "just a hobby."

But still, they try. Even now.

They want me to dress like a serious photographer.
They want me to dress like a serious forensic psychologist.
They want me to dress like a serious painter, a serious writer.

Even in art, even in creativity, they try to make you serious and boring.

But I will fight that. No matter what.

They suppress you. They mold you into what is acceptable.
They tell you adulthood means being serious, as if seriousness is a virtue.

It is not.

Being serious is not a compliment. It is a cage.

They want you to accept roles without questioning them.
But roles must always be questioned. How do they make us feel?

Because if a role suffocates you, if it erases you, if it strips you of joy—then it is not a role worth playing.

I will not be serious. I will not perform. I will not conform.

I will be me.