Claiming someone else’s work isn’t just unfair—it’s deeply indoctrinated in our society as morally wrong. Whether it’s copyright infringement, theft, plagiarism, or cultural appropriation, taking credit for something that isn’t yours is something everyone has confronted. But why are parents excluded from the equation? Why do they violate the very first rule they teach into their children?

I owe a lot to my parents; not just for clothes, food, and education, but also the opportunities they’ve given me. There’s much to appreciate, and even more to give back. All my life, they’ve given me the resources I needed to thrive. A prominent example is school. I was privileged enough to be driven in bad weather, and to own a bike on sunny days. My desk was always fully stocked with calculators, notebooks, and computers, granting me access to a limitless world of knowledge. I owed them all my happiness, success, and achievements. Until now.

A single Google search on one unparticular afternoon shattered the illusion I had lived in for a decade. “Tiger Parenting”, coined by Amy Chua (an American author and law professor), prioritizes the academic performance of a child over anything else. As I scrolled down the article, puzzle pieces that seemed to fit teared themselves apart and rearranged themselves into a grotesque, rancid truth.

Suddenly, all the words and phrases and speeches my parents gave had a new meaning. I didn’t own my life. They did.

Here are a few examples:

School.

I’m high achiever at school. That’s something I can state confidently and without doubt. My short-term memory was close to photographic, and I could spell Erlenmeyer without having a stroke.

The grade was 73%. On that Tuesday, I had written a narrative essay and had an upcoming biology test (which I received 100% on). The quiz was on quadratics—something I could do in my sleep with one left hand. Yet when I received the results, the entire second page was bleeding with red ink.

My parents were outraged, to say the least. Mind you, this was the beginning of the second semester, and the second quiz we’ve had (the first being a review). Last semester, my average was an unweighted 98%. But my parents were having none of it. Bad day? Just an excuse. You are unworthy of college, and don’t even think about university. You’re going to end up homeless like those kids who vape at your school.

No joke. This is the direct translation from Chinese-English to full English. It didn’t matter what I said. The message was repeated for two hours. It discussed everything from carelessness to selfishness to lack of responsibility to lack of time management to stupidity to my future to other classmates. The purpose was clear: degrade me into never thinking about below a 95% ever again.

Robotics.

I participated in the FIRST Robotics Competition, an unforgettable experience that inspires students through competitive robotics, emphasizing teamwork, innovation, and real-world engineering skills. One of its most prestigious honors is the Dean’s List, awarded to ten individuals who demonstrate outstanding dedication to FIRST. I was nominated as a Dean’s List semi-finalist for my commitment and leadership within my team.

I earned this recognition on my own. My parents weren’t involved—I applied myself, wrote my own essays, and highlighted my own achievements. To advance to the finalist stage, I was required to complete an interview at an upcoming event about two months later.

Somehow, through a connection (probably another parent), my own folks heard about my nomination. And suddenly, it felt like they were the ones preparing for the interview. Every evening, I was pressured—forced to answer practice questions, take notes, and rehearse over and over again. Whenever I pushed back, things escalated.

"Write it, or you’re not going out with friends tomorrow."

"Prepare for it. Your grades aren’t enough, and this is something you need to succeed in life."

"You need to stand out from your classmates.”

"Why don’t you rehearse during your school lunch break? You don’t need the break anyways.”

It all had the same message: if you don’t prepare for this interview, you’re not worth anything to me or anyone else.

I hated the pressure. My reasoning was simple and clear: I found this opportunity myself, and I’m going to prepare for it myself. I’m not doing this interview for you—I’m doing it for me. So, I don’t need to prepare on your schedule or drop everything to do it.

And then came the counterarguments:

"If I hadn’t driven you to robotics every Saturday, you wouldn’t have had the opportunity in the first place."

"If I hadn’t paid for your lessons, you wouldn’t have had anything to write on your application."

“If I didn’t drive you to school every day, you wouldn’t have had good marks to brag about.”

Again, the message was the same: You owe me this, and you’re going to do it my way.

That’s not the end. At our first event, I was nominated as Safety Captain, responsible for promoting a safe working environment in the venue. I did not mention this to my parents. There was one award at stake—The Safety All-Star. It may have seemed small and insignificant, but the idea of having one thing that I could truly call my own, something I had earned through my own effort, was tantalizing.

Through my own hard work—hand-drawn safety signs, networking, and carefully prepared responses to interviews from the safety managers—the moment when my name was announced was nothing short of unbelievable. My cheeks ached from the grin that stretched across my face, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had smiled so widely, so genuinely. At last, I had earned something all on my own.

But a few days later, as we drove home, that sense of accomplishment quickly deflated. Through another parent, my mom had heard about the award and, once again, tried to take the significance from me.

“If I hadn’t driven you to those lifeguarding lessons, you wouldn’t have been able to demonstrate those skills and win.”

“Without me signing the consent form, you wouldn’t have gone in the first place.”

“It’s only because I paid for your art classes that you could’ve made those signs so well.”

Again, the same message: You’re only worth who you are because of me.

Conclusion.

So, this is my haunting question. If everything I accomplish—achieve, contribute, design, make, write, or win—belongs to my parents and was only possible through them, what is my own life worth? If I don’t own anything, even my own life, then who am I?

This is not the first existential crisis I’ve had, yet every time I’m able to answer what the meaning of my life is: I’m going to make an impact on this world, whether I like it or not, so I’m going to make it better than it was a minute ago.

But this time was different.

What are you supposed to do when your own meaning of life is stripped away from you, by the ones who supposedly love you the most?

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