The pressure to succeed is tied to her,
Chained around her ankles, it never leaves.
The shackles clank when she walks and bang when she speaks.
She was born a slave to the pressure and the worry.

She always felt that losing is shameful,
And that if you’re not first you’re last.
Her head hung low without the weight of gold medals,
And her arms felt empty without bundles of victory.

The omnipresence of the pressure is an interesting thing.
It may be disguised as fate or obligation,
But it’s never fully clothed by this anonymity.
It can be compartmentalized and put away in a box;
However, you do not get to choose the final package.

She was held back by this pressure.
It was her greatest disability.
The achilles heel of the poor little girl,
Was her repetitive croaks to stress and to worry.

One day she was sobbing uncontrollably.
Her face was red as fire and her eyes were flooding.
The box she put away was unwrapping itself,
And the shackles felt especially binding.

She couldn’t understand why she felt so heavy,
And she just couldn’t release her craving for victory.
She was out in this sea, all by herself,
And the weight of the pressure was making her sink.

“Why doesn’t anyone get me?” she screamed,
As she kicked a chair across the room.
“I’m just human!” she cried,
As she punched the hardwood.
“I’m sorry I can’t be perfect!” she sobbed,
As she threw a lamp at a window.
“Why can’t I just be me?” she begged,
As suddenly the world shifted.

She realized in that moment,
That you don’t always need to be the best,
That second place is good too,
And some people never get to experience even that.

The girl currently resides in a land,
Where B’s don’t mean bad and trophies aren’t idols.
Although there is still hard work and giving 100 percent,
Your absolute best is all that is asked.