The Weight of Expectation

When success becomes a silent burden

Photo by David Kennedy on Unsplash

[Based on the true story of a Christian student at a large state university in the American South who succumbed to hopelessness in 2024.]

The Weight of Expectation

John Ellis Calloway grew up in Meadowlake, TN a suburban town where the streets were clean, the schools were nationally ranked, and ambition was the air everyone breathed. It was a place where success wasn’t just celebrated; it was expected. From the moment he was born, John seemed to carry the weight of those expectations with an unshakable grace. His parents, Laura and David Calloway, were loving and proud, the kind of parents who always made time for their five children even amidst the busyness of their own accomplishments.

Growing up, John was surrounded by a community that celebrated achievement above all else. Meadowlake was the kind of place where the value of a person was measured by their accolades, and John was no exception. His schedule was meticulously packed—soccer practice, music lessons, advanced placement courses, and youth group meetings at church. From an early age, he learned to balance the weight of expectations with a calm resilience that seemed unshakable. Yet, beneath the surface, there were moments when the pressure seeped through the cracks. At family dinners, he would sometimes grow quiet when conversations turned to his future—questions about college, career paths, and whether he’d follow in his parents’ accomplished footsteps. Those moments were fleeting, unnoticed by most, but they hinted at a deeper tension brewing within him, one that even John couldn’t fully articulate. Meadowlake, with all its beauty and opportunity, was a place where the air felt thinner the higher you climbed, and John was climbing fast.

John’s childhood was a mosaic of achievements and joys. By the time he was five, his fascination with music became clear. His father gave him a small guitar, and within months, he was picking out melodies by ear, his small fingers dancing over the strings with a precision that belied his age. By middle school, he was not only playing at church services but also composing his own songs, melodies that seemed to carry the weight of something deeper than a child’s understanding.

At Meadowlake High, John excelled in everything he touched. He wasn’t just a straight-A student; he was an honors student, consistently ranking at the top of his class. Teachers spoke of him with a mix of admiration and awe, marveling at how he balanced academic excellence with his passion for music and sports. He captained the soccer team, leading with quiet determination, and played in the school jazz band, where his solos often brought the audience to its feet. “He’s destined for greatness,” his history teacher once said. “The kind of kid who’ll change the world.”

But it wasn’t just his achievements that made John stand out. It was his kindness. He had a knack for making people feel seen, whether it was helping a struggling classmate understand a tricky math problem or cracking a joke to lighten the tension in a crowded room. Friends described him as “the guy you could always count on,” and his younger brothers idolized him, hanging on his every word, emulating his every move.

When John graduated as valedictorian, his parents beamed with pride as he delivered a speech that was equal parts witty and heartfelt. He spoke of gratitude—toward his family, his teachers, and God—and of the bright future that awaited all of them. No one in the audience doubted that John’s future would be brighter than most.

He left for Westminster University with high hopes and even higher expectations. He was quickly accepted into the honors program and found a place among the best and brightest. But college was different. It wasn’t enough to excel; everyone excelled. The whispers of success that had followed him in Westminster grew louder in the dorm rooms and lecture halls of the university, echoing in the late hours of the night when he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was doing enough, being enough.

John threw himself into his studies, maintaining a near-perfect GPA, but the pressure weighed on him. His professors praised his work, yet their approval felt hollow, fleeting. He joined the Christian Fellowship Club, playing guitar during worship and leading small group discussions, but even there, the sense of peace he once found in his faith began to elude him. He still smiled, still laughed, still played, but the spark that had always defined him grew dimmer.

In Meadowlake High School, John had been the golden boy. At Westminster, he was one among many, and the realization chipped away at the confidence he had carried so effortlessly for so long. He started avoiding calls from home, not because he didn’t love his family, but because he didn’t know how to explain the weight he was carrying. His parents, proud of his academic achievements and grateful for his dedication to his faith, didn’t see the cracks forming beneath the surface.

The cracks revealed themselves in subtle but persistent ways. John began to overanalyze his every decision, replaying lectures in his mind to dissect whether his contributions in class had been insightful enough. He grew reluctant to share his compositions with others, worried they wouldn’t live up to the expectations that came with his talent. Nights that once held the comfort of quiet reflection now stretched into hours of insomnia, his thoughts racing with doubts about his future and whether he could meet the unspoken demands of those around him. Social gatherings that used to bring him joy became burdensome, as he felt an unshakable pressure to be the charismatic, dependable leader everyone expected. Even his faith, a cornerstone of his identity, began to feel like another metric for achievement rather than a source of solace. Though he kept up appearances, each day felt heavier, and the isolation of silently bearing that weight deepened the fractures he tried so hard to conceal.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving break was approaching, and John planned to drive home after his last class. But the weekend before, he sat alone in his dorm room, his guitar untouched in the corner, his textbooks spread across his desk like monuments to the pressure he couldn’t escape. That night, he wrote a letter. It was full of love and gratitude, every word carefully chosen. He thanked his parents for their unwavering support, his brothers for their laughter and camaraderie, and his friends for the joy they had brought into his life. But there was a sadness in the letter, an apology for a pain he could no longer carry. And, sadly, on that night, John lost his battle with demons of perfectionism.

When Laura and David received the call, the world they had built around their son crumbled. Meadowlake mourned with them. The church overflowed at his funeral, with people standing in the aisles, their voices trembling as they sang the hymns he had once played for them. The pastor spoke of John’s achievements, his strong faith, and his kindness, but also of the silence that had surrounded his struggle. “Even the strongest among us can feel overwhelmed,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “And even those who seem to have it all need to be reminded that they are loved, not for what they do, but for who they are.”

In the weeks and months that followed, the Calloways tried to make sense of their loss. Laura spent hours in John’s room, her fingers tracing the worn frets of his guitar, as if searching for answers in the music he had left behind. David began speaking at local schools and churches, sharing John’s story, urging parents to look beyond grades and trophies and to ask their children how they were really doing.

When David spoke at schools and churches, he didn’t shy away from sharing his regrets. He admitted that, in his eagerness to support John’s potential, he often praised his achievements more than his character. “We celebrated the wins, the grades, the trophies,” he told parents, his voice breaking. “But I should have spent more time reminding John that he was enough, just as he was—without the accolades.” David realized that while his intentions had been rooted in love, he had unintentionally reinforced a perfectionistic mindset, one where John felt his value was tied to his performance. To other parents, he urged them to focus on creating safe spaces where their children could be vulnerable without fear of disappointing anyone or being a permanent disappointment to God. “Ask them how they’re feeling, not just what they’re doing. Remind them that their worth isn’t measured by their GPA or their goals but by the fact that they are deeply loved—just as they are,” he said. David’s honesty resonated deeply with audiences, inspiring many to reconsider how they spoke to their children, how they prioritized connection over accomplishment, and how they immersed their kids in grace—not just the grace of salvation but the grace of being in union and communion with the Triune God, filled with joy and delight.

John’s friends created a scholarship in his name, one for honors students who also pursued the arts, a way to honor both his intellect and his creativity. The church started a mental health ministry, offering counseling and workshops to help young people navigate the pressures of growing up in a world that often demands too much and gives too little in return. Career preparation for kids took a back seat in the life of the church.

John’s story became more than a tragedy; it became a call to action. It reminded his community that success is not a shield against suffering, that even the brightest lights can feel the weight of the world pressing against them. And though John’s absence left an ache that would never fully heal, his life continued to inspire those who knew him to listen more, to love deeper, and to remember that sometimes, the greatest gift you can give is simply to be there.