Have you ever considered applying yourself more?

The conversation occurred in the car, or maybe at home. Definitely in a classroom— every flavor of education from the colorful kindergarten walls to the chilly atmosphere of the science lab. It happened with social servants, in meetings with administration. At family events, or those “adult parties” a guardian would drag you to, showing you off like they were Michelangelo and you were David. The random stranger your parents would introduce you to, the relative who saw you once when you were a toddler, the teacher who prides themselves on guiding students— even sometimes the wind, when the sky was silent and you were trying to sink into stone because your mind could never leave you alone. 

You wish you could call it déjà vu, with how it was always exactly the same, but you knew it wasn’t, with how it was always just a little bit changed. Always well-meaning, though that never made it better. 

You’ve heard the words acted in every emotion— at this point you may as well become the director with how perfectly you know the script. Perfect was the problem though, wasn’t it? Because now you are so used to, in every environment, individual, and emotion, hearing the words, “You have so much potential.” 

The fact that it’s often followed by “if only you just applied yourself more,” never helps. 

I can’t remember the details of every conversation, but I always remember who told me. Not intentionally of course, but my body would remind me with a souring of the tongue, a small drop in my gut; my brain trying to warn me, “this is not someone you can trust.” 

You soon learn that even though the sentiment of your “potential” was the same— that you could achieve great things— they had a different idea of how that worked than you did. 

Growing up, it took a while to realize why this sentence made me feel so bad, why it hit a little harder than the other comments would. When I was young and craved validation from the adults in my life, I took it as a compliment. In my mind, I was just a little kid, and this was confirmation from the adults, that yes, I was smarter, I was more mature, that I was more “grown-up.” It seemed like a pat on the back, a push forward saying, “you can become just like us; we see how special you are.” 

This is what I told myself, what I tried to reason the adults were saying because the alternative was feeling frustrated and confused. Couldn’t they see I was trying? That I had the abilities, just not the right tools? 

So instead of questioning it further, instead of recognizing the backhanded compliment for what it was, I internalized the true meaning behind the sentence. That I was a disappointment, a failure, that I just wasn’t good enough yet; and maybe, just maybe, if I pushed a little harder, stood out a bit more, I could reach their definition of success. That I could see my potential fulfilled.

You soon learn that even though the sentiment of your “potential” was the same— that you could achieve great things— they had a different idea of how that worked than you did. 

At some point, you recognize that anyone who wishes you “only applied yourself more” is naive. The issue was never really my work ethic— it was the system I was placed into in the first place. Sure, I was a genius in my own right, like any kid had the potential to be, but the fastest fish is the slowest on land.

With this realization came a bitter age, long and suffering. I would keep trying so hard just to never reach the exact specifications of my predetermined “potential.” I could please one person with the extent of my knowledge, but the next would shake their head, claiming that it was wasted because I couldn’t show it off in the tedious papers they handed me— like that was any indicator of my grasp on the subject. 

The reason I could never be good enough was because there was no good enough. It was simply a statement, an undefined destination that the captain would constantly change, journey extending into eternity.

Soon, anytime I was given the same old well-meaning piece of advice, I became vindictive. “Of course I was good enough,” I reasoned, “I’ll show them.” So more work, more writing, more stress! More expectations, more achievements, more, more, more! If they couldn’t be satisfied with my homework, then I’ll really show them by acing every test. For sure, this would be the time they finally acknowledged me!

Instead, I only learned more disappointment. 

All the while my body was caving in on itself, my mind crumbling. Always more, more, more, never realizing it was too much, too much, way too much. No matter whether I worked to please, or I worked to spite, I always had more I could give, more I could apply, more potential. And with every hard-fought victory, the bar only rose higher; expectations only perceiving perfect, never seeing how difficult it was to get there. 

It took many calms between the storms, when I tensely rode the soothing sea, to understand what was wrong. That the reason I could never be good enough was because there was no good enough. It was simply a statement, an undefined destination that the captain would constantly change, journey extending into eternity.

I asked myself why I was even sailing in the first place, what I had hoped to achieve. But most importantly, I wondered, why was someone else the captain of my ship? The expectations always changed because I was never in charge of them, my body was wasting away because I didn’t take care of it— I was in despair because I let other people determine who I was. 

I asked myself why I was even sailing in the first place, what I had hoped to achieve. But most importantly, I wondered, why was someone else the captain of my ship?

It took a lot of advocating for myself, it took medication and therapy, it took putting all the work I used to do for others into myself. Don’t let the frivolous “5 Steps to Finding your Inner Goddess” self-help books fool you— you have to put time and effort into yourself, carefully cultivating your own garden, and to do that you have to allocate the time and effort away from other things. It is not easy, becoming yourself. In a capitalist society where time is money, where you are valued based on your productivity, where the world does not give you time to breathe— cannot allow it, lest you notice something is wrong— the system punishes you for not working. 

For the first time in my life, I found my grades dropping to C’s. But for the first time in a long time, I found myself happy. For the first time in a long time, I cried not over work late at night, or the “unfairness” of my life, but tears of relief and joy and wonder because I felt happy. 

It was then I learned that grades don’t matter that much, that I would still succeed for myself in the end.

After all, I am made of limitless potential. 

I finally felt achievement when I turned the C’s into A’s in a matter of weeks, not because it showed my potential, but because I could. I knew who I was and I didn’t need to prove it to anyone but myself.

Obviously, I still struggle; your issues don’t just disappear when you realize them— but I know how to work with my weaknesses, I know what I want to work towards. I find myself (mostly) at peace. 

So now, when I hear the always well-meaning, always demeaning, “you have so much potential,” I simply respond with,

“I know.”

After all, I am made of limitless potential.

Victoria Segarra