The Golden Child and the Green Light

​It was 2016, towards the end of my freshman year of high school. I was at school early before classes started. I had an honors English class first period, and that day I had to do a speaking analysis in front of my class about The Great Gatsby for a final.

I was sat in a rarely trafficked hallway with a new friend of mine, though we barely knew each other at the time. I was going through my annotations, discussing the book with him to prepare. He was a couple grades ahead of me and already knew the book.

Nearly ten years later, this memory has stuck with me so vividly I can still feel the cold tile underneath me while we sat on the floor. I think it was one of the first times in my life someone had discussed something intellectually intimate with me. I remember feeling ill-prepared, rummaging through my book and the notebook paper I’d written notes on. He assured me that I would do fine. I kept rehearsing my speech, careful not to close my thesis too early, as it was timed. 

What’s ironic is that I don’t remember what happened in class or what grade I received— but I’ll always remember the feeling of someone believing in me, and the shock when I pulled up an argument he hadn’t even caught himself when he read the book for his English class.

It took me a while to grasp that this small, casual high school moment was actually relational. It showed me how important it is to feel seen, heard, and understood. It was about being met. In quiet reflection, it taught me that true intimacy isn’t burning a green lantern with hopes of being a consolation prize— but in sharing your feelings, admitting your wrongs, and showing up without ambiguity. What a waste it is to hope someone might see your color shining through the fog one day.

In interpersonal relationships, it’s inevitable that you’ll hurt the people you love. Real intimacy is discussing hardships together instead of consolidating them into boxes of comfort to “move forward in a safe way.” A two-liter of pop is still carbonated whether it’s shaken or still. There is no true consolidation— only pressure building quietly until it collapses under its own weight. Just like Gatsby.

For much of my life, I held things in because I was scared of hurting other people. In reality, I was hurting myself by not speaking up. I learned it was better to be silent and miserable than open and free. I thought I was in control. I let the pain fester until I exploded. This pattern repeated itself in friendships and relationships— with family, friends, and partners alike.

Why would I do that?

I believe— and this is a hugely generalized statement, not an endorsement of rigid gender roles— that women aren’t raised to put themselves first. We’re raised to be caretakers. Holders. Observers. Absorbers. Supporters of others. Or at least, that was my experience. 

So when it came to choosing myself, where was that model?

When you’re the golden child, the easy child, the “you always took care of yourself” child, that experience is lonely. I didn’t need checking up on, but that didn’t mean I didn’t need true, emotionally intimate presence. I learned my needs weren’t as urgent in the hierarchy of the home, so I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to add fuel to an already out-of-control fire.

I carried that burden far longer than I realized, and it followed me for years. That snowballed into depression by my sophomore year of high school, and bouncing in and out of it just as much as I did this survival pattern. 

But I still remember sitting in that hallway— the brush of a shoulder, the comfort of a friend showing fifteen-year-old me the value of communication and connection. It became a bridge to understanding myself through American literature. I had always relied on music as my bridge, but this time it was real, not something I’d made up in my head.

He taught me how to show up for people you care about— how to be present without trying to change them, but by accepting who they are. Honestly, I’m still working on that. I got carried away in trying to fix everyone to fit my own narrative, too. Another survival tactic— that maybe my importance would be acknowledged if I were needed. Oh, what rubbish! The answer was all in learning self-importance. 

Not everyone needs saving, not everyone needs fixing, nor was that responsibility mine anyways. My responsibility was and is me. I have definitely learned that I cannot be present for others if I am not firstly for myself. 

So when you meet someone who makes you feel like you should keep the cap on, or turn on the lantern… Just remember: you’re worth more than being someone’s eternal consolation prize.