People who feel “not enough” no matter what they achieve usually carry these 6 childhood wounds

Ever slogged your way to a promotion, a finish‑line photo, or a shiny new certification—only to wonder why the glow evaporates before the ink on the certificate dries?

I’ve been there. Years ago, when I was racking up finance awards like they were buy‑one‑get‑one herbs at the farmers’ market, I kept thinking the next accolade would silence the nagging voice that whispered, Still not enough, Avery.

Spoiler: it never did.

Over time (and a stack of psychology textbooks tall enough to squat with), I realized that the hollowness wasn’t about my résumé. It traced back to half‑healed childhood wounds that kept bleeding into adult milestones.

Below are six of the deepest cuts I see in clients—and in my own journal entries—plus how we can start stitching them up.

1. Emotional neglect

Picture a kid waving a report card, desperate for a smile that never comes.

When a caregiver regularly ignores our bids for attention, praise, or comfort, we internalize a damaging equation: My feelings don’t matter, therefore I don’t matter.

It’s less about overt abuse and more about an enduring absence—like living in a house built without insulation. Everything looks fine, but the cold seeps in.

As trauma researcher Dr. Bessel van der Kolk puts it, “If your parents’ faces never lit up when they looked at you, it’s hard to know what it feels like to be loved and cherished.”

That missing warmth wires the adult brain to keep searching for external proof of worth—titles, trophies, flawless Instagram grids—yet none of it sticks.

Small repair: Start naming emotions in real time. “I feel disappointed my proposal was skipped.” Once feelings are witnessed—by you first, others second—the emptiness thaws.

2. Conditional love tied to performance

Did praise at home hinge on perfect grades or spotless chores? If so, it’s no surprise that achievement became your oxygen. Unfortunately, oxygen tanks run out.

I still remember sprinting a local 10‑k after pulling a 70‑hour workweek, just to prove I could excel at self‑care too (ironic, I know). My worth was so hitched to gold stars that resting felt dangerous.

Why it lingers: The child learns Love = Achievement. As adults we overwork, over‑promise, and over‑analyze feedback. Even glowing reviews feel temporary; the next project looms like a parole hearing.

Small repair: Experiment with “being” goals instead of “doing” goals. For one week, focus on qualities—curiosity, kindness—rather than outputs. Notice how uneasy (and ultimately freeing) that feels.

3. Chronic comparison and criticism

Maybe you grew up with a sibling scorecard or a teacher who wielded sarcasm like a ruler.

Constant comparison teaches a child that value is relative and fragile. Cue the adult who scrolls LinkedIn, sees a peer’s promotion, and spirals.

Child‑brain logic: If someone else is shining, it must dim my light. Adult‑brain outcome: self‑sabotage or relentless one‑upmanship, both of which keep self‑worth on shaky ground.

Neuro‑psychiatrist Dr. Bruce D. Perry captures the cycle: “We elicit from the world what we project into the world; but what you project is based upon what happened to you as a child.”

Project insecurity and you’ll find endless mirrors reflecting it back.

Small repair: Replace the mental scoreboard with a curiosity lens. Instead of “They’re ahead of me,” try “What can I learn from their path?” It’s hard to feel inferior when you’re busy harvesting lessons.

4. Parentification—the tiny adult syndrome

Were you packing lunches for younger siblings while your friends played tag?

Parentified kids adopt adult roles early: mediator, caretaker, bill‑sorter. Responsibility feels safer than play, and hyper‑competence becomes identity.

I can still smell the burnt coffee from late‑night spreadsheet marathons where I had to fix every detail myself. Delegating felt like abandoning a crying toddler—it triggered the same body alarm.

Why it lingers: Achievement masks exhaustion. The inner child equates rest with letting the family (now, the team) down.

Small repair: Practice “good‑enough” tasks. Choose one low‑stakes area—say, folding laundry—and aim for 80 percent instead of 110. The world won’t implode, and your nervous system learns a new baseline.

5. Rejection and abandonment sensitivity

Maybe a parent left, or affection was given and withdrawn like Wi‑Fi in a thunderstorm.

The imprint? People leave when I mess up. As adults we interpret neutral feedback as impending exile and cling to accomplishments as relationship insurance.

High achievers with this wound often over‑deliver to keep partners, bosses, or friends from bolting. Ironically, the hyper‑vigilance can push people away, confirming the fear.

Small repair: Build “proof lists.” After social interactions, jot down evidence of continuity: “Sara texted first,” “Boss scheduled next check‑in.” Concrete data counters catastrophic narratives.

6. Suppressed authenticity

Maybe you learned certain traits—anger, creativity, quirkiness—were “too much.” To maintain attachment, the child tucks those parts away, squeezing into a palatable mold.

Trauma expert Dr. Gabor Maté reminds us, “Trauma is not what happens to you; it is what happens inside you as a result of what happened to you.”

Suppressing self is the internal wound that festers, no matter how glossy the resume.

Small repair: Schedule “authenticity reps.” Ten minutes of an activity you once loved but shelved—painting abstracts, singing off‑key. Gradual exposure tells your system it’s safe to show up whole.

Final thoughts

Feeling perpetually “not enough” isn’t a personality flaw; it’s often a survival skill that over‑stayed its welcome.

The moment we trace present emptiness back to past wounds, we gain leverage: we can treat the injury instead of polishing the armor.

Pick one small repair this week. Speak a feeling aloud, aim for B‑minus work, or belt out a guilty‑pleasure song while cooking. Each act is a vote for sufficiency—a whisper to the nervous system: We’re safe, we’re worthy, as is.

And if the old ache flares up (it will), remember this trail‑runner’s mantra: healing isn’t a finish line; it’s a winding path. Keep putting one compassionate foot in front of the other.