Seeing Myself Through His Eyes: Reclaiming My Worth
For most of my life, I have measured my worth through the eyes of the men around me. A father who dismissed women as lesser, a husband who never truly liked the person I was, and a son who looks at me with disappointment. I spent years trying to mold myself into something palatable, something acceptable, something that might finally make them see me and say, “She is enough.” But that moment never came. And now, I realise, it never will — because my worth was never meant to be measured by their expectations.
The Lessons from My Father
I grew up watching my father diminish my mother in small, cutting ways. A rolled eye when she spoke. A dismissive wave of the hand when she shared an opinion. A tone of irritation when she needed something. He never said outright that women were less than men, but I felt it in every interaction. Women, to him, were background characters, useful but not important. I learned early that my voice mattered less, my feelings were secondary, and my desires should never inconvenience the men around me.
So, I made myself small. I tried to be pleasing, easygoing, agreeable. I suppressed my anger when he treated my mother with disregard, and I swallowed my voice when I felt unseen. If I could be good enough, quiet enough, then maybe he would look at me with pride rather than indifference. Maybe he would finally see me as valuable. But he never did.
The Marriage That Silenced Me
When I met my husband, I mistook his attention for validation. Here was a man who seemed to want me, who chose me. But I didn’t see the truth then — I wasn’t loved for who I was, but rather for how well I fit into the role he had already designed for me, and as I was just 16 when we started dating, i was so malleable and able to be formed into exactly the woman he wanted.
At first, I did conform. I softened my edges, quieted my dreams, made myself small again. He never outright stopped me from pursuing my dreams, he just didn’t prioritise them. I was selfish if i wanted a life and a purpose of my own. If I challenged his opinions, he made it clear that I was difficult. If I expressed frustration, he called me dramatic. If I needed more from him, I was too demanding. He was impervious to my thoughts and opinions and not open to my influence.
So, I made excuses for him. I told myself that this was what marriage looked like. That maybe I was expecting too much. That being loved sometimes meant sacrificing parts of yourself. But as the years went by, I realised I had sacrificed too much. And still, it was never enough.
Being Desired but Not Seen
There were moments when I felt powerful, moments when I walked into a room and felt eyes linger on me. Strangers who desired me, who looked at me as though I was something to be consumed. For a brief moment, that attention felt like validation. I was seen. I was wanted. But it was not me they desired — it was a version of me they had created in their minds, a projection of what they found appealing.
I became an object to them, a fleeting fantasy. I could see it in the way they spoke to me, in the way their eyes traced my body without ever truly meeting my gaze. And yet, part of me still craved it. If I couldn’t be valued for my mind, my voice, my spirit, then maybe being wanted in this way was enough. But it wasn’t. It was just another way to be diminished, another way to be seen and yet unseen at the same time.
The Son Who Sees My Failures
When I had my son, I thought I could raise him differently. I wanted to break the cycle, to teach him to see women as whole, complex, worthy human beings. But children absorb what they see more than what they are told, and he grew up watching multiple generations of men dismissing the women in their lives.
Now, he is an adult who looks at me with disappointment. Not for the reasons I feared when he was little — not because I was too strict or too lenient, too present or not present enough. But because I am not what he thinks a mother should be.
I see it in his eyes when I tell him no, when I hold a boundary, when I don’t fit neatly into the role of unwavering nurturer, endlessly self-sacrificing and giving. When I refuse to be treated as an afterthought, when I ask for respect, when I demand more. He sees me as a problem. He looks at me with the same exasperation his father did. And I feel the same deep, aching guilt my mother must have felt — this belief that I have failed as a mother because I am not what he wants me to be.
The Choice to Disappoint
I have spent my whole life trying to shape myself into something that would please the men around me. And I have failed, over and over again. Not because I wasn’t good enough, but because the game itself was rigged. There was never going to be a version of me that satisfied them all, because their approval was never about my worth — it was about their expectations.
And so, I have made my choice.
I am prepared to disappoint my father. To let him believe that I am too opinionated, too independent, too much.
I am prepared to disappoint my (now ex) husband. To let him sit with the discomfort of a woman who will no longer shrink to fit inside his narrow expectations.
I am prepared to disappoint my son. To let him wrestle with the realisation that his mother is not here to be everything for him, to bend and shape herself into the version of femininity that makes his life easiest.
Because for the first time, I am measuring my worth with my own eyes. And I am enough.
I always have been.
