Growing up, the concept of “monitored eating” was foreign in our household. As long as a vegetable, a protein, and a grain graced our plates, my mother, Estella, considered it a balanced meal. There were no restrictions on quantity or specific food choices, a freedom that came with a significant caveat: relentless physical activity.

From a very young age, Estella made it her mission to enroll Liam and me in a constant rotation of sports. Whether it was a recreational league or an intense workout class, she consistently pushed us to our physical limits. This demanding schedule was, in fact, one of her initial justifications for homeschooling us. As she argued, at the tender age of four, I was expected to endure hours of classroom confinement followed by a whirlwind of sports, rushed dinners, and an early bedtime. There simply wasn’t enough time for relaxation or quality family moments. While homeschooling did offer a different rhythm to our days, the rigorous sports schedule remained firmly in place.

Being only fourteen months apart, Liam and I often found ourselves on the same co-ed teams, a logistical convenience for Estella. Year-round, our lives revolved around soccer, basketball, baseball, track and field, and swim team. If a sport season ended, Estella would promptly find a workout class to fill the void. I vividly recall her constant refrain: we had to be the best. Anything less, in her eyes, was a waste of money and embarrassment.

Amidst this intense pressure on Liam and me, my older brother, Caleb, occasionally competed in golf tournaments. It always struck me as odd that Estella and Ricardo never attended his competitions or seemed to pressure him to excel in the same way they did with us.

For Liam, Lilah, and I, the message was clear and constant: if we weren’t the best, we were an embarrassment to the family. This demanding narrative was deeply ingrained in us by both parents, who consistently set unrealistic standards. While numerous instances illustrate this dynamic, I’ll recount just a few.

The T-Ball Tirade

Baseball held a special place in Ricardo’s heart. When Liam (five) and I (four) were playing T-ball, Ricardo was there to watch. During one game, an umpire made a call that infuriated him. He allowed a child to tag Liam out at first base even though the ball was clearly dropped before the tag. Incensed by what he perceived as an egregious error, Ricardo began heckling the umpire. The ref repeatedly told my father to calm down, insisting the call would stand. Ignoring these warnings, Ricardo stormed onto the baseball diamond, making a beeline for the umpire. The two men, chests puffed out like angry penguins, stood face-to-face, exchanging heated words. “Are you blind or stupid?” Ricardo bellowed. Suddenly, he moved closer, bumping into the ref. “Do you want to fight? Let’s go!” he challenged. In an instant, the other dads sprang into action, attempting to intervene. The chaotic scene ended with the umpire ejecting my father from the field and Estella dissolving into hysterical tears.

The 120 MPH Ultimatum

Years later, when I was seven and Liam was eight, Ricardo decided we weren’t progressing quickly enough in baseball. I was playing shortstop on an all-boys team with Liam as the catcher. Always on the lookout for a bargain, Ricardo found a pitching machine on Craigslist that boasted speeds up to 120 mph. One weekend, he took us to the local park, which had three baseball diamonds arranged in a circle, to practice with his new acquisition. As he set up the intimidating machine, he looked at us sternly. “If you miss a ball,” he declared, “you will run a lap around the entire park.” That “entire park” measured a daunting 1200 meters.

Ricardo flipped the switch, and the machine whirred to life, launching baseballs at a formidable 90 mph. Liam stepped up to the plate, swung, and missed. He began his long lap. I was next, and the same fate befell me. The cycle repeated itself – a hit here, a miss there, and more grueling laps. After several rounds, my chest tightened, and I felt the familiar constriction of an asthma attack. I went to Estella for my inhaler. Ricardo, his face contorted in anger, stormed over. “Stop faking it to get out of running laps!” he accused. I wheezed, desperately trying to get air, but he continued his tirade, calling me a liar.

He then turned his attention to Liam, who was now forced to practice catching balls hurtling at 80 mph. With each successful catch Liam made, Ricardo’s anger seemed to escalate, and he relentlessly dialed up the machine’s speed. Tears streamed down both Liam’s and my faces as Ricardo unleashed a torrent of yelling, accusing us of being lazy and making excuses. Finally, something shifted in Estella. The parent in her seemed to resurface. She told Ricardo to walk home. She bundled Liam and me into the car, and we drove home in silence. Hours later, Ricardo returned, went straight to the shower, and then to bed. There was no acknowledgment of the afternoon’s events, no discussion, no apology. Instead, we were expected to pretend that nothing had happened.

These early experiences, marked by relentless pressure and a stark absence of empathy, laid the foundation for many of the themes that have echoed throughout my life. The ingrained belief that my worth was tied to achievement, the fear of disappointing those I loved, and the unsettling silence that followed moments of intense conflict, these became familiar patterns. While the baseball field may seem a distant memory, the lessons learned in those pressure-cooker moments have cast a long shadow, shaping how I navigate challenges and strive to find a healthier definition of success, one that isn’t solely measured by external validation or the fear of being anything less than “the best.”