Welcome to the National Honor Society: “You’ll Never Be Anything”

HOW MY MOM OUTPERFORMED HERSELF IN THE ROLE OF WORLD’S WORST CHEERLEADER

By now, you probably have a decent idea of what my relationship with my mom was like. If The Lie I Told (and the Book That Set Me Straight) didn’t paint the picture, this one should seal the deal.

To be honest, I craved her attention like a dog chasing a cat it’ll never catch. As kids, approval from the people who are supposed to love us most feels like oxygen. And the less my mom gave, the more I wanted to breathe her in. Every put-down, every “you’re doing it wrong,” every cold shoulder—all it did was turn me into a full-time approval addict.

And here’s the kicker: I was actually a great kid. Like, obnoxiously good. Straight-A student (with the occasional B), award-hoarder, and basically running on pure “notice me” energy.

In middle school, I made it into the National Junior Honor Society, which was a huge deal to me. My grandmother, Nannie, was still around, and thank God for her. She was the one who swooped in, took me thrifting, hyped me up, and picked out this adorable red paisley shift dress that screamed Y2K. She even had the disposable camera ready, like a proud stage mom minus the psychological trauma. She made me feel seen and loved, always.

When I modeled the dress for my mom, she looked me up and down, muttered “Pretty. Don’t ruin it before the ceremony,” and then went off to spend some “quality time” with my stepdad. Translation: I was invisible… again.

So I clung to Nannie. She made me feel like a real teenage girl—normal, smart, good. At home, I was a fat, good-for-nothing idiot who still somehow functioned as their personal assistant.

Make it make sense.

Fast forward to high school, and my induction into the National Honor Society. Nannie’s health was fading from dialysis and a second transplant on the horizon. Despite that, she still tried to make it special. My mom, on the other hand, brought her usual flair: the attitude. That’s about it.

The night before the ceremony, we had some stupid fight (couldn’t tell you what about, it doesn’t matter). But what came next? Burned into my brain. She stood behind me in the mirror, stared at me, and said:

“You’ll never be anything.”

That’s the kind of sentence that brands itself onto your soul. I remember freezing, panic flooding me, second-guessing every single thing I’d ever achieved. I wanted to skip the ceremony, crawl into bed, and never come out.

But I went. And here’s the kicker: in front of the crowd, my mom put on her best Mother of the Year act. Sugary sweet, all smiles, lapping up compliments from people gushing about me as if she had anything to do with it. Honestly, Meryl Streep would’ve been proud of her performance. She deserved a standing ovation for pretending to like me in public. And then, the second we got home, the mask came off. Back to cold. Back to cruel. That’s how it always was with her—two versions of the same woman, and I never knew which one I’d get.

So I walked across that stage with a lump in my throat, wanting to scream, cry, and yank my hair out. As I looked at Nannie her eyes lit up, but all I could hear was:

“You’ll never be anything.”

On repeat. For years. Like the world’s shittiest mixtape.

Here’s the thing, though. That sentence—that curse—has followed me into adulthood. Even now, when I screw up, her voice slithers back in:

You’ll never be anything.

But here’s what she didn’t account for: writing. Writing was the one thing that drowned her out. Every word I put down was like another stitch pulling me back together. Turns out words can be medicine even when the wound runs deep. She definitely didn’t see my stubborn determination coming either. My sheer will to prove her wrong, to be better than her in every possible way—sharper, stronger, louder, kinder. She thought she broke me, but all she really did was hand me the blueprint for everything I absolutely refused to become.

Now, I measure success differently. Not by a paycheck, not by status, but by becoming the person I wanted to be all along. By hitting goals, telling stories, living authentically.

And I have.

So, when I hear that voice now saying, “You’ll never be anything,” I laugh. Because I don’t hear truth anymore. I hear jealousy wrapped in bitterness, sprinkled with her own unfinished business. And lucky for me, that baggage comes with her name tag on it, not mine.

But her jealousy and manipulation?

Oh, sweetheart. That’s a whole different blog post.