Double standards

I watched my brother be praised

for things I was scolded for.

I watched him succeed

and no one questioned how.

No one picked it apart.

No one asked what was wrong with him

for managing to do well.

But me?

Every achievement came with a condition.

A pause.

An asterisk.

“Well… considering your mental health.”

“Well… given everything you struggle with.”

As if success only counts

when you don’t suffer.

As if pain disqualifies effort.

In this family, it was

you get what you work for.

But no one counted

how hard I worked

just to stay alive.

They called his wins discipline.

They called mine luck.

Or weakness dressed up as progress.

I didn’t fit the mould.

I didn’t break down neatly.

I didn’t heal quietly.

So my success made them uncomfortable.

Because it proved something they didn’t want to see:

that you can work yourself to the bone

and still struggle.

I wasn’t less deserving.

I was just hurting

in a way they refused to understand.