I am not enough.
Every morning I wake up and sigh that I have to face another day. I go to work with my father's words stuck in my head, talking about how he thought I would be his most successful child, knowing that he only saw me stumble over every opportunity, crash-landing here, doing a mediocre job for low pay.
People in my life are aging. Some are sick with very little time left. And here I am, at this age, so far behind where I — or anyone around me — thought I would be.
Hour by hour, my hands perform every task with looming thoughts of failure and disappointment.
Minute by minute, the public has demands.
Second by second, I strain my own mind to meet those demands, stuffing down the overwhelming grief I feel over the version of myself I thought I'd be right now, the approval I'd hoped to earn, and the slow loss of people who anchored my sense of time and meaning. Every step I take carries this weight while strangers expect me to perform.
Day by day I grow more exhausted and empty, looking back at the time I've lost.
I am not enough.
People in my life are aging. Some are sick with very little time left. And here I am, at this age, so far behind where I — or anyone around me — thought I would be.
Hour by hour, my hands perform every task with looming thoughts of failure and disappointment.
Minute by minute, the public has demands.
Second by second, I strain my own mind to meet those demands, stuffing down the overwhelming grief I feel over the version of myself I thought I'd be right now, the approval I'd hoped to earn, and the slow loss of people who anchored my sense of time and meaning. Every step I take carries this weight while strangers expect me to perform.
Day by day I grow more exhausted and empty, looking back at the time I've lost.
I am not enough.
