The Paradox of Being Enough
"Being enough" was never a measurable achievement in the first place. It was a judgment. And judgments can always move.
From a young age, I carried with me the feeling that I was not enough. So I poured myself into everything I could find: studies, hobbies, friendships, work. The list goes on.
No one ever tells you when it is enough.
My parents told me to keep studying because my grades weren't enough. Teachers told me to practise more because what I painted wasn't good enough. Aunties told me I wasn't pretty enough, so I bought more makeup. Television told me I wasn't thin enough, so I starved.
Now I am twenty-seven, and I still carry that same feeling: I am not enough.
I have friends, but not enough. I feel pretty, but not pretty enough. I read a lot, but not enough. I work out regularly, but my body isn't good enough. I haven't travelled enough, dated enough, loved enough, earned enough.
In short, I haven't lived enough.
But then, when is it enough? When do I stop? When can I rest? Sometimes I wonder if I haven't lived enough because I spent so much of my life trying to become enough.
It feels like a race where every finish line turns out to be another starting point. You finally arrive, only for someone to tell you that there is still more to do, more to achieve, more to become.
I have had enough.
I am okay with being mediocre, if that is what people call it when you stop trying to constantly improve yourself. At least mediocrity has an end point. At least it allows you to rest.
At this point in my life, I have realised that nothing is ever enough. If you think you have done enough, someone will tell you that you haven't. There will always be another goal, another milestone, another version of yourself you are supposed to chase.
So I have stopped trying to be enough.
I have accepted that enough is not a destination I can reach. It is a decision I have to make. And I have decided that I am enough already.
Everyone else can respectfully fuck off.
