“Will I Ever Feel Enough?”

Lately, I’ve been wrestling with this heavy question: Will I ever feel enough?

Not just in the “I had a good day” kind of way. I mean deep down—like down in my bones, in my cells, in the soft, tired corners of my heart.

Will I ever feel like I’m doing enough, being enough, loving enough?

Because the truth is… I feel like I’m not.

Not as a runner (the scale hasn’t moved).

Not as a mom (how could someone as incredible as Lowen have me as a mom?).

Not as a woman (my body image has been in the trenches).

And even when I know I’m doing my best… the voice in my head whispers, “It’s not good enough.”

As Lowen’s second birthday approaches, I’ve been looking back on the last two years with tenderness and panic. Time is moving so fast. I blinked and the baby fog lifted. I spent so much of that first year afraid—panicked even. I’d wake up multiple times a night just to check if she was breathing. Co-sleeping saved me. It helped me rest. It helped me be there. But even with all that closeness—breastfeeding, contact naps, holding her through the hard and soft moments—I still feel like I failed somehow.

Did I miss it? Did my anxiety rob me of her babyhood? Did I waste it by being scared?

And that’s the thing about anxiety—it doesn’t care how much you’re doing right. It tells you you’re still falling short. It makes you question every good thing. Every beautiful moment. Every gentle choice.

I know I did my best.

But there’s this ache… this whisper… that maybe my best wasn’t enough.

I’ve spent over a decade in therapy. I’ve read every self-help book you can think of. I even tattooed so much more on my arm as a reminder that I am more than my fears, more than my body image, more than my beliefs about worth.

But three years later, I still need reminding.

I still wake up in the middle of the night worrying that I’m failing the people I love most.

And maybe that’s just part of this human experience—this deep, raw desire to be whole, to be seen, to believe we’re enough without constantly proving it.

I’m trying—every day—to not pass this down to Lowen.

To give her the gift of knowing she is enough exactly as she is.

But what a layered thing it is, to teach something you’re still learning yourself.

Just keep showing up. For her. For me. For the little girl I used to be.

Because maybe the mission isn’t to erase the fear.

Maybe it’s to walk with it.

To hold its hand, look in the mirror, and say:

“I see you. I hear you. But I am still so much more.”

 

This is the messy, beautiful, soul-stretching work of healing.