Nicky sat at kitchen table after returning from school, the quiet hum of the house surrounding her. She wanted to do homework in peace without any assistance, but the realization of that occurring was not realistic in this world. Her mother stood nearby, handing her the dictionary with a look of quiet determination. "Here," her mother said, her tone calm but firm, "You have your ten words for the week. Read them, memorize them, and then put them in your own definition."
Nicky nodded, feeling the weight of her mother's gaze. A mere second grader, already prepared for what awaits in expectation from someone whose expectation were endless. The words were simple enough, but there was always something about the pressure of it all that made them feel heavier from a child's view. These words—each one pulled from the lessons of Resurrection Catholic elementary School in Chester, PA—felt like a challenge, not just to understand their meaning, but to meet the expectations that seemed to grow with each passing week.
The first few minutes passed in silence as Nicky leafed through the dictionary, trying to grasp the meaning of each word. She scribbled down her own definitions, but the more she tried, the more the words seemed to blur together. Her mind wandered, and she found herself frustrated. The task was never as easy as it seemed. She glanced up at her mother, who was watching with patient expectation, waiting for her to finish.
As time ticked on, Nicky’s pace slowed. She wasn't completing the work fast enough for her mother’s liking. The calmness in her mother’s voice began to fade, replaced by a sharp edge of frustration. "Why isn't this done yet?" her mother asked, her tone now laced with impatience. "You need to work faster, Nicky. Get it done at a pace that’s acceptable to me."
The pressure mounted. Nicky’s hands trembled slightly as she tried to focus, but the words were slipping away from her. She could feel her mother's frustration like a cloud hanging over her, making it harder to concentrate. Each word on the page seemed more difficult to define, more challenging to understand.
And so, the cycle began again. Every week, the same ten words, the same dictionary, the same expectations. Nicky would sit, struggle, and try her best to meet the demands, but no matter how hard she worked, it never seemed to be enough. The words, once just vocabulary lessons, became a reflection of something deeper—a constant loop of trying to prove herself, to show that she was enough, that she could live up to her mother’s vision of success.
But for Nicky, the words weren't just definitions anymore. They were a reminder of the constant pressure she felt, and the frustration that came with each week that passed without her mother seeing the effort she put in. It was as if no matter how much she tried, the weight of expectation would always keep her reaching just beyond her grasp. The relief that today she would allow me to sleep, but the reminder that a ass whooping will follow have I not have those words tomorrow.
The sun was barely peeking through the blinds the next morning, and Nicky sat at the same kitchen table. The feeling of yesterday still clung to her like a heavy fog. The failure of not getting the words right—the sharp sting of her mother’s disappointment—hadn't left her. Her mind felt foggy, drained, as if the weight of the previous day’s frustration had seeped into her bones.
Her mother entered the kitchen, the same look on her face: calm but expectant, the silent pressure already filling the room. "Well?" her voice sliced through the air, quiet but firm. "Did you practice? Are you ready?"
Nicky nodded, though the truth was, she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready. The words from the day before still rang in her ears, the mispronunciations echoing in her mind. “Sound it out,” her mother’s command from last night played on repeat. "Don't mispronounce it."
Her mother’s gaze never wavered as she set the dictionary on the table in front of Nicky. “You know the drill. Let’s see if you can get it right today."
Nicky’s heart sank. It felt like she hadn’t even had time to breathe since the night before. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many times she practiced the words, she knew that her mother wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection. Yesterday had been hard enough, but today, she feared, would be worse. She felt the familiar tightness in her chest, the gnawing sense of failure clawing at her insides before she even started.
She picked up the first word, trying to focus, trying to push away the anxiety that was creeping up. She sounded it out, but it came out wrong. It always did. The moment the mistake left her mouth, she saw her mother’s face tighten.
“Again,” her mother said coldly, her patience already wearing thin.
Nicky’s throat tightened, but she did it again. And again. But each time, the words escaped her in the wrong way, like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. The anger in her mother’s voice grew. “Why can’t you get this right? How many times do I have to tell you?”
The words felt like daggers, cutting deeper than before. Nicky’s mind was spinning, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. With each misstep, the small shred of hope she’d been holding onto from yesterday slipped further away. Her fear of disappointing her mother, of never being good enough, loomed over her like a dark cloud. It wasn’t just about the words anymore—it was about her. About who she was and who she was failing to become.
Her mother’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp and unforgiving. “You’re wasting my time, Nicky. You should know this by now.”
That was all it took. With each rebuke, Nicky could feel a part of herself withdraw, a part of her spirit fading, feeling smaller with each attempt. The frustration, the shame, the suffocating feeling of inadequacy—all of it consumed her.
In those moments, Nicky couldn’t see the purpose of all this, couldn’t understand why she had to go through it again and again. It was just a set of words. But the way they made her feel—the way she felt in her mother’s eyes—made everything seem impossible. She was tired, so tired of trying and failing, but it didn’t matter. Her mother’s expectations loomed like a wall, and Nicky was left feeling like she could never climb over it.
And so, the cycle continued. Another day, another round of trying to meet a mark that felt impossible to reach. Every failure, every mispronounced word, left Nicky feeling more disconnected from herself, like something inside her was breaking. And no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she wanted to believe she could do it, the fear of not being good enough, of never living up to her mother’s expectations, lingered, a constant reminder of how far she still had to go.
The sun had barely risen, casting a pale light over the kitchen as Nicky sat at the table, her eyes downcast. Her mother was already there, her gaze cold and unyielding as she looked at Nicky’s attempts, already knowing that the words hadn’t been mastered. The atmosphere felt thick, suffocating, like the air itself was waiting for something to break.
Nicky’s mother stood up, her voice breaking the silence with an icy sharpness. “Go outside,” she said, her tone low but stern. “Go get the switch from out back. And make sure it makes the sound.”
Nicky’s stomach turned, her heart sinking into the pit of her chest. She’d heard the phrase before, had known this moment would come one day, but the weight of it, the finality of her mother’s command, felt like a stone crushing her spirit. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave the table, but she knew she had no choice. Her mother’s eyes were already locked on her, demanding compliance.
Reluctantly, Nicky stood and walked out the door, her feet dragging with each step. The yard felt endless, the air heavy, and the sky above her seemed to close in. She made her way to the back of the house, her mind clouded with dread, knowing what was coming. The switch, thin and sharp, lay waiting in the bushes, as if it too had been prepared for this moment. Nicky reached down and grabbed it, the wooden rod cold in her hand. She could almost hear it whispering, the threat it held in its thinness, how it would sting with each strike.
She took it back inside, her hands trembling, the switch feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Her mother was still seated at the kitchen table, unmoving, her eyes locked on Nicky with a cold intensity that made her blood run cold.
"Now make sure it makes the sound," her mother said again, her voice flat. Nicky knew what she meant—the sound of the switch cutting through the air, the sound of punishment, of pain.
The first strike came without warning. The pain sliced through Nicky’s skin like fire, and for a moment, everything went still. The sharp sting of it didn’t just hit her body, it hit her soul. The tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Her mother’s face remained emotionless, the act of it all mechanical, as if it were just another part of the routine. Another failure. Another lesson.
As the next strike came, Nicky felt her heart race. But with each lash of the switch, something inside her began to change. The sting, the burn—it hurt, yes, but it also began to numb her. The pain became a distant echo, something she could feel but not fully absorb. It was as if the more she felt, the less she truly felt. Each strike pushed her further away from the pain, until she was almost detached, her body responding like an automatic reflex, her mind retreating to a safer place. In that moment, she learned something she hadn’t expected to learn: that sometimes, the best survival tool you had wasn’t strength, but numbness.
The pain was still there, sharp and unrelenting, but in the distance of that numbness, Nicky found a kind of escape, a way to endure without truly breaking. It wasn’t healing—it wasn’t even survival in the truest sense. But it was the only way she could continue. It was how she managed to make it through the storm without losing herself completely.
As the blows continued, she found herself slipping further and further into that numbness, unable to feel anything more than the cold, unyielding force of it all. In that space, the world felt distant, like she was observing it from a place far away, untouchable, safe in her own detached silence.
That day, Nicky learned the many forms that pain could take. And in that moment, she learned that sometimes, being numb was the only way to survive.
