I felt disappointed. Not a fleeting, passing disappointment… but the kind that sinks into your bones, that gnaws at your chest, that whispers in every quiet moment that you have failed.
And the worst part? The unbearable part? It’s knowing that whatever I do… whatever I give… whatever I fight, bleed, and sacrifice… it will never be enough for you.
I have tried. Oh, how I have tried. Every day, every moment, I offered pieces of myself that I barely recognized, hoping they would finally be seen, finally be enough.
But they are not. They never are. And slowly, painfully, I began to see it clearly: you do not see me at all. You only see the gap between who I am and what you demand.
I have bent, I have broken, I have reshaped myself in ways I thought were impossible. I have hidden my pain, swallowed my tears, carried burdens you could not even name.
And yet… still, I fall short. Still, the silence, the coldness, the judgment hangs over me like a storm I can never outrun.
Do you even know the weight I carry? The effort, the sacrifice, the love I poured into a vessel that rejects me anyway? Or is it invisible to you, like I am invisible to you?
I lie awake at night, replaying my every word, my every gesture, the endless attempts to satisfy a standard that moves like shifting shadows, always out of reach.
I am exhausted. Not just physically, but in every fiber of my being. I am exhausted from hoping. From trying. From believing that someday… maybe someday… I would be enough.
And the cruelest truth sinks in: I will never be enough for you. Not in this world, not in your eyes, not in your heart.
I gave everything—my heart, my soul, my very self. But everything is still too little. And I begin to wonder if it was ever about me, or if it was always about your expectations, your rules, your impossibilities.
I am tired of striving for a perfection that will never exist, of reaching for approval that will never come, of loving someone who measures me by what I lack rather than what I am.
And yet, in the ruins of this realization, a strange clarity emerges. Perhaps it is not a defeat. Perhaps it is the beginning of freedom.
If I am never enough for you… then I no longer need to chase your approval. I no longer need to bend, to hide, to shrink myself to fit the space you deem acceptable.
I can be everything for me. I can give myself the care, the respect, the love that I have been starving for all this time.
And in that, I find a flicker of power. A spark of defiance. A quiet, burning certainty that my worth does not depend on your validation.
I am enough. Perhaps not for you. Perhaps not for anyone who cannot see beyond their ego and their demands. But enough for me. And that must be enough.
So I stand, exhausted but unbroken, shattered but alive, rejected yet fiercely, irrevocably whole.
And one day, I hope, someone will see me—not the gaps, not the flaws, not the shadows—but the whole, blazing, complicated being I am, and they will know the truth: I was always enough.