Teine Lelei: The Weight of Perfection

This series was birthed from counselling sessions not in clarity but in collapse.

It came from the places where I finally stopped trying to hold it all together.
Where I stopped pretending grief was tidy,
where I stopped shrinking myself into old expectations
that no longer fit the woman I was becoming.

The Unraveling is not just about what fell apart.
It is about what was finally laid bare.
What had to break open for healing to begin.

This is where it started for me,
with the weight of perfection
and the unspoken pressure of being the teine lelei.

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Perfection was stitched into the seams of my girlhood,
not as decoration, but as expectation.
Not softly.
Not kindly.
But tightly, like a dress I was never meant to grow out of… only into.

In the world I was raised in,
being the girl came with a script.
The only daughter.
The teine lelei.
The ‘good girl.’
It meant silence more than it meant virtue.
Obedience more than it meant joy.

Say the right thing.
Smile the right way.
Walk as if you carry no weight at all.

If only you were like so-and-so…
I heard it so often it settled into my marrow.
They had perfected the performance,
those older cousins, those kids at church,
but I had seen the truth peeling at the corners.
Double lives behind starched Sunday clothes.

Still, I tried.
Tried to match the impossible.
And when one of the elders leaned in and asked,
O e teine lelei a?
(Are you a good girl?)

I always answered,
Ioe, o lea lava.
(Yes, I still am.)

I said it without pause.
Because that was what was expected.
Because that was what kept me safe.
But looking back now, it unsettles me
how strange it was to ask a child
if they were still good.

To be conditioned to believe that goodness had an expiry date.
That your worth depended on how well you performed,
how closely you followed the rules.

And the standard?
It was always moving.
Every time a cousin broke the mould,
every time a church kid strayed from the script,
the person I was compared to… changed.

I collected fragments of each one who came before
not realising I was gathering from their performance,
not their peace.

I mirrored their behaviour,
not knowing what it cost them to maintain.
How close they were to breaking,
how much of themselves they had to bury
just to be praised.

It was never really about character.
Just keeping up appearances.
Keeping in line.

There were other rules too.
Worn like tradition, held like law.
Minimal skin.
Nothing above the knees.
No visible chest.
No fitted tops.
No makeup until… well, maybe never.

As I moved into my early teens, my body became a battleground for modesty.
Mum started dressing me in long puletasi and eventually full suits.
Not the tailored kind but the ones from the 80s—shoulder pads, stiff lines, heavy fabrics.
I wore them so often to church that people began gifting them to me.
I would hide them in the back of my closet,
hoping Mum wouldn’t find them.
I laugh now… but I despised them then.

Even nail polish was a sin.
In high school when the goth/emo trends were everywhere,
I painted my nails black for the first time.
We were driving home from church when Dad noticed and said,
‘Only witches wear black nail polish.’
I don’t remember wearing black nail polish after that.
Because when something small is labelled sinful,
you learn to hide the parts of you that feel loud.

I wore the dresses.
Hid the suits.
Scrubbed off the nail polish.
Because that was the responsibility of being the only daughter.
Obedience even at the expense of my voice.
Respect even at the cost of self-expression.

I want to be clear,
my parents loved us deeply and did the best they could with what they knew.
But they weren’t the only ones shaping those expectations.

Part of it was culture.
Part of it was legalistic religion dressed as tradition.
The quiet rules whispered through looks, through dress codes, through gossip.

The weight didn’t come from one voice but from many…
And it settled over time,
like dust on everything I touched.

I share this not to shame but to shed light.
Because the effects of that kind of upbringing are real.
And healing begins when we name them.

The seams began to split.
Not all at once.
Not loudly.
It started with grief.

I lost Mum.

Somewhere in the silence after the funeral,
I lost the version of myself that was trying to hold everything together.

I was there when she took her last breath.
They had already placed her on palliative care,
but my heart could not just let go.
I tried to resuscitate her
(my hands trembling, heart racing)
as if love could breathe air into her lungs.
As if effort could reverse time.

Grief counselling was the first time someone sat across from me and listened to it all.
How I had paused my work.
Taken her to every appointment.
Stood in the gap as her advocate.
Was prepared to leave my job entirely if it meant caring for her.

And then he asked me the one question no one else had:
‘What more could you have done?’

I sat there, blinking through tears, and whispered,
‘I don’t know.’

He paused.

Then gently said,
‘There’s your answer.’

And then words that caught me off guard:
‘There seems to be an unrealistic standard in your head. Even after doing everything in your power, it still feels like it wasn’t enough.’

And something in me broke open.
Because I had done everything.
That question finally gave me permission
to lay down the grief-soaked garment stitched with guilt.

Then I lost Ivan.

That was the undoing.
The breaking open.
The beginning of everything unravelling…
and everything true rising to the surface.

I started Cognitive Behaviour Therapy,
but it was not just grief I was unpacking.
It was everything.
All the roles I had held.
All the expectations I had folded myself into.

The teine lelei was grieving and undone,
and the weight of perfection cracked in my hands.

Becoming a mother made it even clearer:
I could not carry that pressure and still carry Eden.
I could not wear the title and still walk freely.

Because I don’t want her to conform to anything less
than what God has destined for her.
I don’t want her to feel like she has to perform to be accepted,
or shrink herself to be loved.

I’m protective of the fire in her;
her humour, her boldness, her untamed joy.
She is wild and fully loved.
And I pray she becomes everything and more
of who God calls her to be…
not who the world expects her to become.

Part of that identity (that code) meant caring for your parents.
At all costs.

Even in the thick of survival,
when I made the choice to move in with my in-laws,
there were still voices (cultural and religious)
telling me that, as the only daughter,
it was my role to move back home.

Both our families lived nearby.
They didn’t know the memories I’d be returning to.
But the weight of expectation still spoke louder
than the tenderness grief required.

My in-laws had since moved out of that area.
And while I still carried sorrow into their home,
it wasn’t soaked in the same memories.
It wasn’t bound to the same streets.

There was breathing room there.
And I needed that more than I needed approval.

It’s always easier to judge someone’s decision…
until grief takes the final word.

Always.
No questions.
No breaks.

I didn’t mind honouring that.
I still don’t.
I take Dad to his appointments.
I sign his forms.
I show up in quiet faithful ways.

But not the way I used to.
Not at the cost of my breath.

After my second-to-last therapy session, I called him.
Not as the obedient daughter.
But as the woman beneath all of it.
I sobbed.

What follows is not word-for-word,
but a gentle translation of a conversation spoken entirely in Samoan.

I tried my best to move us and no matter what, the door kept closing.
So I applied for just me and Eden… and a door opened for us to move.
I don’t know what to do but I want you to know what I’ve been carrying.
Why I can’t come back and stay there anymore.
Every time I return, I am reminded of him…
“Ua matua mafatia lo’u loto…”

He cut me off before I could finish.

The words don’t translate neatly.
But they meant something like,
My heart is deeply afflicted by what has happened.

In Samoan pain carries more weight.
It’s not just spoken, it’s felt.
It reaches places English cannot touch.

For the first time my dad did not correct me.
He did not offer a verse.
He did not remind me of duty.
He just listened.
And then he said he understood.
He sits with his own pain over Mum too.

And then the thing I did not even know I needed,
he gave me his blessing.
Not just to move out.
But to move forward.

Ou te iloa le mafatiaga nae nofo ma oe. O lo’o mafatia pea lo’u loto i le alu o lou tina. Ae peitai o lo’u manaoga ia e manuia ma maua le loto fiafia.

(I know the pain you sit with. My heart still aches over your mother too. But what I want most is for you to live well and be happy.)

And something clicked in me.

After everything-all the trying, striving and grieving,
that is what it came down to.

That is what every good parent wants for their child.
Not perfection.
Not performance.
Just peace, joy and to see us whole.

There have only been two times I’ve let my dad see me truly broken.
In the house we grew up in, emotions and conversations weren’t encouraged.
We were expected to comply.

But this time was different.
It didn’t end in silence or striving.
It ended in release.
In peace.
In a deeper revelation of how our Heavenly Father loves us,
not for how well we hold it together,
but for how fully we let Him in.

Here is what I have learned in the unravelling:

That holiness is not perfection.
That faith is not performance.
That love does not demand you to disappear.

Jesus never asked me to be like so-and-so.

He asked me to come.

And I did.
Not with perfection but with pieces.
Not with clarity but with pain.
Not with strength but with surrender.

And He met me.

To every woman who followed the rules but lost herself along the way, I want to say this:

You are not more loved when you perform.
You are not less loved when you fall apart.
You are not alone in the pressure.
You are not the only one who has cracked under the weight.

Let it fall.
Let it break.
Let it go.

Some weights are meant to be released,
not worn like legacy.

You are allowed to be both gentle and wild.
Both broken and beloved.
You are allowed to rise slowly.
To walk forward freely.
To heal loudly, or quietly, in your own time.

And when you do,
may you find joy that does not demand perfection,
but welcomes your whole heart home.

Jesus doesn’t want the version of you that has it all together.
He wants you.
The real you.
And He’s still saying…

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Author’s Note:
This piece is not shared to shame but to shed light on the kind of pressure that often goes unspoken in our families and communities.
It was written with love for the culture that raised me and for the generations still trying to make sense of the weight they carry.

Some parts may be confronting, especially for those who know me personally. This isn’t a call-out, it’s a calling in. An invitation to reflect, make space for honesty and to begin healing the parts of ourselves that learned to survive by staying silent.

I believe we can honour our families and still name what hurt. I believe in a love big enough to hold both.
I pray this piece reaches whoever needs it most with grace, courage and a hope that always points back to Jesus.