Who Would You Be if You Had Nothing to Prove?

I want to ask you four questions I wish someone had asked them of me earlier. They might change the way you see yourself.

1. Who benefits from the way you think about yourself?

When I started first grade, I missed a lot of school because of a leg injury. I missed the basics of math, and I don't know why my elementary school teacher treated me the way she did. But whenever I struggled with a problem, she called me stupid. Eventually, I stopped doing my homework. I played with my friends instead of studying. I had accepted the idea that I wasn't smart.

When a child repeatedly hears that they are incapable, they may eventually stop questioning the message and start treating it as a fact. As I grew older, I became an honor student, received scholarships, and eventually completed my degrees in dentistry and beyond. I worked hard, and I can't deny that I'm proud of what I accomplished. But sometimes I wonder: Why was I so driven to pursue my goals? Was it because I genuinely wanted them, or was I trying to prove someone wrong? Perhaps it was both. The desire to prove someone wrong can push us toward real accomplishments, but that doesn't mean we're free from the belief that made us feel we had something to prove.

2. Who would you be without this story about yourself?

I received offers from modeling agencies. I was also encouraged to consider singing. It might sound funny, but there were people who thought my voice was workable. Of course, I refused all those offers because I was so desperate and determined to achieve all my educational goals. I thought my voice was ugly. I also thought modeling and singing weren't serious professions compared with education. I had already decided what I could and couldn't be. I chose to focus on my education.

I don't want to rewrite my past, but I wonder what else I might have explored if I hadn't been so afraid of discovering that I wasn't good at something. Would I have played the piano, or became an actress? Perhaps I would have tried these things and discovered I didn't enjoy them. That would have been fine, too, but I never even considered those possibilities.

We become so familiar with the person we believe ourselves to be that we stop questioning the limits we've placed on ourselves. If you believe you're difficult to love, perhaps you settle for relationships that confirm that belief. If you think you're not talented, perhaps you never try the thing that excites you. You might eventually forget that these were choices made under the influence of fear. Gradually, you form an "illusory" identity, until you begin to believe that's simply who you are.

Who would you be without this story? We don’t have to be perfect or successful, or always happy. We just need to stop living in conflict with who we really are. Let your real self out.

3. When did you decide this was true?

I remember trying to solve math problems on my fingers under the desk. One day, my teacher noticed and called attention to it in front of the class. I can't say that this was the exact moment I decided I was stupid. But I remember the embarrassment, and I can see how an experience like that might have reinforced what I had already been told. A six-year-old doesn't think, "I missed lessons because I was injured, and I need more time to catch up." They're more likely to think, "There must be something wrong with me."

I grew up hearing negative messages in more than one place. I can't know exactly how each experience shaped me, but I can recognize how difficult it would be for a child to develop a secure sense of self in that environment. Years later, at university, my biochemistry professor praised me in front of my classmates. She described me as intelligent, passionate, and dedicated. Instead of enjoying her words, I felt uncomfortable. I didn't quite believe they described who I was.

The contrast is that someone could tell me I was stupid, and I would carry those words for years. Someone else could praise me, supported by my work, and I would struggle to accept it.

Have you ever noticed something similar in yourself? We often give criticism more weight than compliments.

4. What would happen if this changed?

When an article of mine gets rejected, my instinct is to work harder. I don't want to give up. I want to improve and try again. Persistence can be a good thing. Rejection is part of writing, and I don't want to lose my determination. But I also notice that I struggle to feel good about myself when I'm not productive. Resting can make me feel guilty, as though I should always be doing something useful.

What would happen if I no longer felt that I had to earn my worth through achievement? I think I would enjoy my life more. I might dance. I might learn to play the piano. I might start a podcast or pursue something creative simply because I want to see where it takes me. I wouldn't need every new interest to become a career, prove my intelligence, or make me more impressive to other people. That sounds like a small change, but to me it is a big deal: the freedom to do things without turning them into a test of who I am. I am still learning how to do that.

The last question for you is: How much of your life are you choosing, and how much are you spending trying to prove something?

You might discover that the story you tell yourself began with a parent, a teacher, a partner, or a moment when you felt ashamed. You might discover that some parts of that story still reflect your experience, while others no longer fit. You don't have to blame anyone, dismiss your past, or abandon your ambitions to examine it. You only have to become curious about whether the story is still serving you.

I am still asking myself these questions. I don't yet know exactly who I would be if I stopped trying to prove that I was intelligent, capable, and worthy, but I want to find out.

Who would you be if you no longer had anything to prove?

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