Alexa Daskalakis

My Biggest Insecurity​

written with care

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When I was in kindergarten,
I remember counting on my fingers.
3 + 1 = 4.
In first grade, everyone stopped.
I didn’t.

In middle school, someone asked me how to solve a math problem.
I said, “I don’t know.”
They blinked. “What? Aren’t you, like, really smart?”
So I did the problem ten times before I finally understood it.

It wasn’t just that I was bad at math.
That’s too generic.
Being bad at math meant I could never be a doctor, a physicist—
never someone who could shape the world.
And that became my biggest insecurity:

I’ll never be able to make a difference.

When I was younger, teachers would say,
“I just know you’ll be a writer someday.”
They meant it as encouragement.
But I laughed—politely.
Why would I want that?
I didn’t want attention.
I wanted a different gift.

Teachers would show my writing to other teachers.
They’d say, “No, this is really something.”
They asked to submit it to contests.
I let them—
but only to make them happy.
So they could say I was their student.
I didn’t want credit.
I just didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

Later, people said I could use my looks to sell things,
to draw people in.
But that wasn’t the point either.
Being attractive didn’t feel like a gift.
It felt like a liability—
something people used to kick me,
as long as they could disguise it.

And I let them.
Because if you’re not ugly, you don’t get to complain.
That’s the rule.
They were looking for a reason to misunderstand me,
to call me arrogant—

I never said a word about how I looked.

I never had an ego.
Just clarity. Eventually.

I didn’t feel seen.
Not for my restraint,
not for the effort it took to stay quiet.
I wasn’t comparing myself to anyone—
but they were comparing themselves to me.
So I pretended not to notice.
But I did.
I just didn’t care if anyone found me ugly or beautiful.
I wanted to disappear.

I took the SAT before studying.
I bombed the math.
But I was a few points away from a perfect English score.
No one knew the “smart kid” couldn’t do math
without repeating each problem twenty times.

My gift crushed me.
So I thought again:
I’ll never be able to make a difference.

Years later, I posted a book review on Goodreads.
A man replied, asking if I had a math degree.
I didn’t.
He sounded uneasy.
He didn’t understand—
I had worked so hard to even understand that book.
Not to impress anyone.
Just because I wanted to understand the world.
But his ego projected onto me.

People assume that because I understand something,
it must come easily.
They don’t see the twenty failures behind it.
They don’t know
I never gave up.

I still suck at numbers.
And science.
And maps.
And giving directions.
But I never stopped trying to understand.

One time, a substitute teacher asked me a math question.
I said, “I don’t know.”
She threatened to call my parents.
She thought I was being lazy.
But I was just being honest.
That was the first time a teacher disliked me.
I think she thought I was playing dumb.
I wasn’t.
I was genuinely lost.

Every time I wrote, teachers wanted to submit it.
When I wrote at my best, it shocked them.
But still—

I thought I’d never be able to make a difference.

I had an ex-boyfriend who wrote me poems.
We were together for almost three years.
I never told him I could write.
Not once.
Not to be cruel—
but because I didn’t want to wound him
by showing how easy it was for me.

When I first entered the workforce,
a supervisor asked me to give a short presentation.
I was shaking.
Everyone thought it was nerves.
He smiled, “You’re a natural.”
I laughed.
But I think he meant it.

The truth?
I wasn’t nervous because I was shy.
I was nervous because I take words seriously.
I don’t speak on what I haven’t lived.
I hadn’t earned the right to talk about that topic.
Not really.
To someone who lives in words,
saying the wrong thing feels like betrayal.

One time, I sent an email with a small mistake.
I told him I messed up.
He said, “You’re too hard on yourself. This happens.”
It’s true.
But when you’re secretly a writer,
even a small error feels like an insult to language itself.

Sometimes I wrote below my ability
so others could feel safe.
Not to manipulate—
but because I cared.
Because I didn’t want to make anyone feel small.
So when he marked it wrong in red,
I forgave it instantly.
But I knew what I was doing.
It wasn’t the time to show my gift.

Once, someone joked about firing me.
I said flatly, “Okay, I’ll just leave.”
Deadpan.
That was my joke.
Their eyes widened.
I knew then—
I had to be careful with my sharpness.
I had to wait.

This happened as a kid, too.
Most people write, then analyze.
I analyze, then write.
Most people feel, then express.
I process through logic, then feel.
That disorients people—
especially when softness and structure are living in the same person.

But it was the only way I learned to survive:
by using logic
when no one was safe enough to feel with.

And now?

Now I share my writing.
And it’s allowed me to connect—
not just with people,
but with people who are actually making the difference
I once thought I never could.

And I’m completely at peace with that.
Together, we do more.
Don’t resent your gift.

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Author’s Note & Legal Disclaimer:
Truthfully, a lot of this embarrasses me to say. It’s like walking in front of everyone and having my pants fall off. But I wrote it to connect.

This piece is a personal reflection and creative work of nonfiction. It expresses my own subjective memories, feelings, and interpretations, not objective or verifiable facts about any other individual, employer, or institution. Any resemblance to real people, companies, or events—past or present—is entirely coincidental and unintended.

A note on phrasing: When I say “I don’t speak on what I haven’t lived,” I’m referring to my personal approach to communication—not a claim that all content here or elsewhere reflects direct experience.

No part of this essay is meant to describe, criticize, or make claims about any identifiable person or organization. It should be read solely as an exploration of my personal perspective and growth. The opinions, emotions, and experiences described are mine alone and are not assertions of fact about others.