Good enough

I didn’t fail.

My concussed heart whispers, gasps that I failed. I understand why. But I can’t find any rational story in which it is true.

I tried. I tried as hard as I could. I gave all that was asked and more.

Sometimes trying looked like failing: exhausted, resentful, angry, hopeless. But I got up and I tried again, tried to try better, generated hope where none should logically exist.

I didn’t fail.

But my next line is:

I just wasn’t good enough.

And that’s where it all falls apart. That’s where I snatch despair from the jaws of healing.

I don’t think I saw it before, how every repetition of I am not good enough, I must be better was a way to say who I am is not worthy to receive what I want and need.

Was a way to say I despise the man I am.

I knew I wasn’t wanted. Deep down I knew. And not wanted became not worth wanting and I tried to save myself in this way: I tried to tell myself, that’s OK, I can be better.

Enough.

I didn’t fail.

I was good enough.

I am good enough.

I am worth wanting.

I don’t need to be better.

I do want to see more, hear more, understand more, love more, feel more, encourage more, inspire more.

I choose these mores, not because I am hateful, not because I am insufficient. But because I love who I am and I love what that says about who I can be in the future.

I haven’t failed. I am good enough. And I want to be more of who I am.