A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of spending a Friday afternoon with my husband’s 5-year-old niece, an occasion that always has an impeccable way of setting the tone for the weekend.
We had a dance party. Played with playdoh (oh, the nostalgia). And at some point as we colored, debating what hue the front door of our respective houses was going to be, the sweet girl looked at me and said, “I want to be you.”
My heart swelled. Then it sank. And before I could think my mouth opened and a response came out:
“No, you don’t.”
I regretted it immediately. Not for me, but for her, although I’m pretty sure the weight of my words escaped her. They were not lost, however, on my husband who was also in the room, because as I lifted my gaze to meet his, his eyebrows had shot up to his hairline in a state of did-you-hear-what-you-just-said disbelief.
I did, of course, hear it. With deafening emphasis. And something tells me that if Dr. Phil had been a fly on my dining room wall he would point out that my niece wasn’t the intended recipient of that message.
It was being directed at my 5-year-old self.
Because at the heart of my perpetual search to feel like I’m enough is a through line that I should be somewhere, be something, well – else.
That my journey is simply not measuring up.
Sound familiar? It likely does. Yet we keep these sentiments – that do not discriminate based on gender, talent level, or walk of life – buried in our deepest parts, where no one can hear their secrets but ourselves.
It’s a self-sabotaging mindset disguised as a tactic for keeping ourselves in check with our desire to do more, see more, be more, when we just can’t find it in us to feel content with where we are right now. In fact, I’d argue that the notion of feeling like we’re not enough is an infliction of the aspirational.
Those who strive to be better, have an impact, be an inspiration.
And especially those who were raised with the priority of making others proud.
But the truth is there’s a very fine line between embracing yourself as a work in progress and never feeling like you’ve arrived. If the goalpost of “enough” is an ever-moving target, Gang, we’re never going to get there.
And that then begs the question, what’s the damn point?
It’s why I have become extra vigilant about my internal dialogue (and, as evidenced by this story, the words that actually do come out of my mouth), which is clearly tainted by an overrated and off-the-mark definition of success.
Because maybe representing goals for a 5-year-old is actually what it’s all about.
Did I mention my dance parties come complete with jumping on the couch?
