MAP x A Tiger Cub, Part II - When Love is Wrapped in Perfectionism by Eric Chang

“When Love Looked Like a Scorecard”

I never got a B in school.

Not once. Not in math, not in science, not in AP classes.
The only B I ever got was an 89 on a Chinese school test—and my parents didn’t let me forget it. They teased me for months. Not in a cruel way, but in that offhanded, "you could’ve done better" tone that sounds like a joke, but lands like judgment.

What I didn’t realize then was that this wasn’t about a test.
It was about what the test meant.

To my parents, perfection wasn’t a preference—it was a form of love.
Success meant safety. Excellence meant worth.
In their eyes, pushing me to the top was how they protected me from falling.

My dad had never scored below near-perfect in school. He was the standard.
Disciplined. Brilliant. Focused.
So when I didn’t meet that bar—when I got a 95 instead of a 100—he didn’t see it as a failure, just as a missed opportunity to be better.

But to me? It felt like I had let him down.
Not because he yelled (though sometimes he did), but because he was watching so closely—always watching.

That pressure didn’t stop at school.

I was good at sports growing up. Fast. Competitive. A natural, people said.
But my dad wasn’t the kind of parent who came to cheer.
He came to observe. To analyze. To critique.

At my soccer games, he’d pace the sidelines yelling instructions so loud the coach eventually asked him to leave.
He was trying to help. I know that now.
But at the time, it felt like I was never really playing for myself. I was performing—for approval, for survival.

Eventually, I quit.

I did the same with piano. I never liked it much, but I was good.
Still, every recital sent me into a spiral of anxiety.
I didn’t feel excitement—I felt like I was dying.
The pressure to perform turned music into a threat.

By the time I was finally getting good—when I was finally confident—I cracked.
I told my parents I’d kill myself if they made me keep going.

I didn’t mean it literally. But it was the only thing strong enough to make them stop.
My mom was in China at the time. She let me quit.
Years later, she told me she still regretted it.
She believed that if she had been there in person, I would’ve kept playing.

But I couldn’t.
It wasn’t just about the piano. It was about everything.

Somewhere along the way, I developed a defense mechanism:
If I acted like I didn’t care, I couldn’t fail.
If I never tried too hard, no one could be disappointed.
If I wasn’t great, at least I wasn’t pretending to be.

It was a way to survive expectations.
But it left me with a fixed mindset.
I clung to things I was already good at and avoided anything that might reveal my shortcomings.

That fear of falling short became its own kind of prison.

Now, as I step back and try to make sense of it all, I don’t just see perfectionism.
I see love—twisted, misshaped, and filtered through fear.

My parents didn’t know another way.
They grew up in a world where failure meant something real.
Lost opportunities. Social shame. Closed doors.

They didn’t have the luxury of letting their kids “figure it out.”
To them, success was the only safe place.

So they taught me to aim high.
To avoid mistakes.
To perform like my future depended on it—because, in their world, it did.

And while that shaped me in many positive ways—discipline, grit, ambition—it also left wounds I’ve only just started to name.

Like how I struggle to feel “enough” even when I’ve done well.
Or how I still find myself bracing for criticism, even in moments of celebration.
Or how I fear trying new things—not because I’m lazy, but because I’m scared of what failure says about me.

This isn’t about blame.
It’s about understanding.

Because when I really reflect, I see two people who were doing their best to love me in the language they were taught.
High expectations weren’t just pressure. They were protection.
Perfectionism wasn’t about control. It was about care…

But now I get to decide what kind of love I give—to myself, and maybe someday, to my own kids.

Love that praises effort, not just results.
That makes room for failure without shame.
That doesn’t need a score to feel safe.

And maybe that’s how we start to heal.
Not by rejecting what we were taught, but by reshaping it—gently, intentionally, and with compassion.