I Did Everything Right, But It Didn’t Pay Off
- Gabrielle Paquette
- 1 day ago
- 5 min read
What happens when anxiety fuels achievement, but achievement still isn't enough
I was four years old when I was diagnosed with generalised anxiety disorder (a mental health condition characterised by anxiety about many different day-to-day situations). As an anxious kid, I became very good at performing competence, earning the “gifted kid” label. I was often bullied by my peers, so I found comfort in books, where I didn’t have to talk to anyone. I put all my efforts into academics and prided myself on being the one who always knew the answer.
Achievement became not just something I did, but the architecture I built my sense of safety—and self—in. Yet, at the age of 28, the achievements I collected throughout my life didn’t really show up the way I expected, if at all.
Lately, I have been relating very hard to Rory Gilmore in Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life. Like her, I did everything “right”, but I still ended up floundering as a young adult. Beyond both being brunettes from New England, we were known by everyone around us as hard workers who were obviously going to have bright futures. Yet, as young adults, we both ended up freelancing in London, watching our friends pull their lives together while quietly panicking about our own.
As a freelance women’s health consultant, I find myself writing through this experience, trying to make sense of how achievement doesn’t always pay off in the way we are taught to expect, and what it means to navigate that dissonance as a young adult.
The Girl Who Had It All Lined Up
As a kid, I watched my parents struggle financially and felt the stress it put them under; I didn’t want that for myself. My mother had dreams. I carried the weight of honouring them, and building the better life that her sacrifices were supposed to make possible. Like Rory had to be the proof that Lorelai’s choices were worth it, I had to show that everything my family had worked hard to give me wasn’t wasted.
I overachieved in high school. Honours. AP classes. Over-scheduled with after-school activities and titles to boast: co-president of the dance club, lead in operettas, string quartets, recipient of foreign language awards.
Then, in 10th and 11th grade, tragedy struck, and my biggest asset—my brain—took the hit (literally). Two Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBI) changed everything. For someone whose way to manage anxiety since childhood was achieving, my whole identity was forced to shift.
I didn’t give myself enough recovery time, believing I needed to push through, resulting in dire consequences. Focus was hard to summon, fatigue loomed constantly, and emotional regulation felt fragile. The mental health challenges I had previously masked with structure and overachievement became harder to conceal. My anxiety spiralled to the point that I had to go on medications, which I still take today. Yet, I got into every college I applied to, with many scholarship offers, and I ultimately enrolled in my dream school.
When the Architecture Cracks
I was hoping that after all of the suffering with my TBI and navigating their long term impact, college would be easy in comparison. However, when I started my undergrad, the myth of “working hard will inevitably pay off” cracked.
Everyone around me was hardworking, accomplished, and had been the best somewhere. I was no longer exceptional. Some semesters, I really struggled. Some courses left me feeling behind in a way that felt existential, not just academic. I had spent my whole life being the one who understood first, and now I was working twice as hard for results that felt average. Because I built my identity on being exceptional, average felt like failure.
I still graduated magna cum laude, and landed an impressive sounding job right out of college, but the pay was poor. I thought a master’s degree would help me succeed in today’s cut-throat job market, so I went back to university and earned another degree. Did it help?
Well, no. If anything, I’m worse off.
While searching for full-time work after graduating with an MSc, I worked in a pub to make ends meet, and it felt demoralising. Don’t get me wrong, I have a huge respect for hospitality work and for the people who do it (it’s definitely NOT unskilled labour); but, doing a job outside of my interests and taking home minimum wage felt like everything I had built academically counted for nothing in the world I was navigating.
I’ve been out of full-time work for a year and a half. The other day I printed my CV and walked from café to café asking if they were hiring. Out of roughly sixty shops, five took my CV. Two were actively hiring. Neither has called.
Career coaches have called my CV impressive. They say my experience makes me uniquely qualified—often even overqualified—and admit they cannot understand why I have not been hired yet (neither can I). Despite holding a master’s degree, I find myself begging for minimum-wage work, and sadly, I am not alone. Unemployment is on the rise, particularly among young people, who currently face an unemployment rate of 16.2% in the UK.
The Burden of Performing 24/7
I’m embarrassed to show people how I’m really doing. My family doesn’t know how scared I am. They grew up with much less than I did, working hard to give me opportunities they never had. While I am so grateful for them, I feel extremely guilty that I don’t have anything to show for it.
I know how to put a good front on, so friends assume I’m fine. They don’t know I've been walking into cafés with a printed CV and rehearsing humility in the mirror beforehand. I’ve been performing this role so convincingly that, at this point, I don’t know how else to exist.
On top of everything, I’m living in London as an immigrant, navigating the high cost of living and added pressure of a visa and the restrictions that come with it, which carry the constant need to perform at my best just to stay afloat.
When Achievement ≠ Success
In Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life, Rory drifts between London and New England, insisting she’s freelancing, that “it’s [her] time to be rootless,” with no permanent address and no stable job at 32 years old. Being rootless may be exciting at 22, but by 32, it sounds panic-worthy.
Recognising some of these “rootlessness” in my life, sent me into immediate panic. Like Rory, I was groomed for success; but, unlike her, I don’t have grandparents who could bankroll Yale. So, if she stumbles with all that cushioning, what does that mean for me?
The emotional landscape feels eerily similar: the performance of being fine, the insistence that your stumbles are temporary. Worst of all, the quiet shame of not matching the trajectory everyone assumed you were on, and the feeling that you’ve let your family down.
I’m struggling to live as an anxious person in a world where my hard work hasn’t paid off yet. For my whole life, achievement has been an answer to my anxiety: a proof of safety, of worth, of belonging. What nobody warned me about is what happens when achievements stop paying off. The anxiety remains, but the armour is gone. I’m still figuring out how to exist without it. Some days, that feels like falling. Other days, it—tentatively—feels like finally being honest.
This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.
