Good Enough

Good enough. For many years I wondered if I would every feel this. But now I wonder, good enough…for what? For who?

I wanted to live up to some fantastical image I’d fashioned in my mind about what my body would look like when I was good enough, what grades I’d achieve when I was good enough, what knowledge I’d have amassed, what accolades I’d have to my name.

During that time of constant striving, it slowly dawned upon me that, because the arbitrary bar I’d set for myself was so ridiculously and unattainably high, I would never be good enough.

Then, a question.

Had I intentionally set the bar there in order to insure I would never reach it, and thus, would never arrive at my goal? Because if I did, what reason would I have for continuing on? It seemed that it was this striving that gave me life, that got me out of bed in the morning.

Strangely, this realization only fueled my efforts and desire to work harder.

Yet even I could see it was twisted. It wasn’t working.

It was not until many years had passed of riding this sick merry-go-round where no one at all was merry and they simply kept spinning around and around, employing the same tactics over and over again with the hopes of achieving a different result, and failing frustratingly, that I was given permission to step off of the ride.

The permission came from a truly kind and gifted therapist who spent months earning my trust and building a tenuous relationship with me. I sat across from her, me on the overstuffed couch flanked by decorative throw pillows in muted colors, meant to calm and not distract or excite; she, one leg crossed casually over the other, elbow on knee, right hand supporting her chin, head cocked slightly to the side, confused.

Photo byElly FairytalefromPexels

“But you know,” she said preparing to reveal some hidden truth, slowly, gently, so as not to startle me away, “inherently by your existence, you are good enough.”

The merry-go-round came to a screeching halt, and that’s when I was given permission to step down, to see myself. I was no longer confined to that hard plastic pony with the chipped beige paint.

Now I could see the trees and the birds and the grass at last standing still, rather than constantly spinning in the dizzying circles I had failed to realize I’d somehow grown accustomed to.

I am good enough. You are good enough.

Full stop.