Dear Me-Who-Didn’t-Feel-Enough,
I wish I could tell you I’ve figured it all out—that somewhere along the way, the fear faded, the doubts disappeared, and I finally felt… enough.
Like I was doing it right. Like I belonged.
But I haven’t. Not really.
There are still days I look in the mirror and only see the flaws.
Still days when my best doesn’t feel even close to good enough.
When the house is a disaster.
When the kids eat nothing but boxed mac and cheese (again).
When I try to be the perfect mom, wife, daughter, human—and somehow manage to drop all the balls at once.
When the bills outnumber the dollars, the inbox stays full, and I seriously consider running away to live one a desert island in Tahiti with no Wi-Fi.
There are still moments when the silence after an interview feels like confirmation.
Still nights when I lie awake, picking apart every word I said that day.
Still that quiet voice that whispers, Maybe they’re just being nice. Maybe they don’t really mean it.
You thought you weren’t enough back then.
And honestly? Some days, I still do.
But I’m learning to believe that showing up is enough.
That boxed mac and cheese isn’t a moral failure.
That the mess doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong.
That love isn’t measured in perfectly folded laundry or homemade meals.
That trying—even tired and unsure and overwhelmed—still matters.
I’m starting to believe that I don’t have to earn rest.
That I don’t have to fix everything to be worthy of grace.
That maybe I’ve always been enough—flaws, doubts, and all.
So I keep going.
I love. I doubt. I cry. I try. I laugh. I dream. I show up anyway.
Maybe that’s what enough looks like.
Not perfect. Not polished. Not sure.
Just… here.
Still learning. Still trying. Still writing. Still breathing.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s more than enough.
Love,
Me-Who’s-Still-Becoming-Enough