AM I GOOD ENOUGH: Battle Within

By Ghenrietta Von Bloome

I always struggled with the weight of what-ifs—the relentless tide that ebbed and flowed, sometimes crashing in waves of self-doubt, sometimes lapping gently at my shore, teasing me with the glimmer of things unseen, unknown, untried. It began in the corridors of my childhood home, where words cut deeper than any knife ever could.

“Can’t you do better?” “Look at your friend! Why can’t you be more like her??”

Comparison was carved into the walls, embellished in the very air I breathed. The aroma of disapproval mingled with the scent of burnt toast on lazy Sunday mornings. It was suffocating, a shroud, a specter looming. What if I could have broken free? What if I had felt the freedom of acceptance instead of the chains of expectation? I think of all those moments I stood in front of the mirror, a stranger reflected back at me—my eyes scanning for something, an elusive quality I could never name. I brushed a hand through my hair, that untamable frizz a sign of everything that felt wrong. Was that why I never quite fit in? Did everyone else know something I didn’t?

Beneath those questions, a vortex of self-recrimination churned, insistent, ever-swirling.

In high school, we were marked by more than grades. I wasn’t just a name scrawled on attendance sheets—I was a puzzle piece that didn’t belong in the picture. Geometry class blurred into colors of shame, every laugh that bounced off the walls another reminder of whatever it was that everyone else had, that I must have lost somewhere. What if I had been thinner, smarter, louder..? What if I had dared to stand taller, thrown myself into the fray of teenage chaos with an abandon I could not muster? And then it spiraled, the thoughts colliding like a cacophony of discordant notes, layering my insecurities, suffocating my voice.

“I must project something better,” I told myself.

I studied friends whose confidence pulled me to them, their laughter like a light that illuminated everything, everything I felt I lacked. They invited me to parties, to walks, while I clung to the edges, hyper-aware of every falter, every wrong word tumbling from my tongue like stones. “Just be yourself,” they said, but what if I didn’t even know who that was? What if “self” was a mere phantom, always just out of reach?

It wasn’t until college, amidst the chaos of dorm life, that I sought solace in the library’s vast stillness—a sanctuary where the smell of old paper and ink wrapped around me like a comforting embrace. It was there I stumbled across some books that whispered of existence with a clarity that cut like a razor.

“To exist is to choose,” echoed in the silence.

Some books spoke of the absurd; and I flipped through pages, desperate to find a foothold against the slippery slopes of my mind. What if I could carve out a choice—somehow make peace with this chaotic inner world? But the more I read, the more I realized I was wrestling not just with acceptance, but with existence itself.

What is it to live? What is genuine?

It felt unfathomable, as if the questions expanded until they engulfed me whole. I would scribble profound thoughts in my journal, an erratic stream of consciousness that spiraled into existential quandaries.

“If I am unhappy with who I am, who is to blame?” could lead to a torrent—which could lead me to tears.

“Is it my fault for feeling inadequate, or simply how society has conditioned my narrative?”

It was overwhelming, yet liberating all at once.

I thought of conversations I’d had with one of my roommates at the time, whose optimism was always a kiss of sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“Perfection isn’t the goal, you know,” she said one night as we shared midnight snacks, her eyes sparkling with what felt like magic. “It’s about connection—finding people who appreciate you for you, the beautifully flawed you.”

I remember being silent, processing her unexpected yet subtle wisdom, her boldness, as it danced against my uncertainty. It seemed simple enough when she said it, an acceptance wrapped in love. But could I accept myself? Could I break years of indoctrination—the constant barbs of comparison?

Time passed; seasons slipped by, and I grew.

I dabbled in art from time to time, splattering paint across canvases like confessions, layer after layer, a physical manifestation of my emotions, my internal battles. Each stroke felt so existential; it was tangible freedom. Some of my abstract pieces would hang in a local gallery, chaotic but bursting with it—the life that sprang from my messy heart. Little did I know how much I was accepting, how the act was defiant against the shadows that lurked within. The thought tickled at the corners of my mind, but the what-ifs remained. What if no one liked what I created? What if they scoffed, wrapped in sarcasm? But I learned to drown those voices, reflecting instead on the mantra Jess had instilled in me. It took practice, to redirect the spirals of selfloathing into spirals of creativity. Each brush of paint silenced whispers of inadequacy, each vibrant color infused life into my dull gray thoughts.

And then came what I can only describe as a revelation, one dampened sparkling spring morning. I stood before my latest canvas, a dizzying twist of hues that mirrored the turmoil and joy within me. I smiled broadly, the laughter of my past echoing faintly, mere shadows receding into forgotten recesses.

I am here. I am alive. I am enough.

The stream of what-ifs shifted subtly to, “What if I chose to embrace myself as I am—fractured but real?” What if life was not defined by relentless comparisons but by the unique journey that compelled us forward?

What if…no, what is?

What is the essence of my being?

Acceptance. Forgiveness. Liberation.

The road ahead was still uncertain, but it was mine to walk, and I would luxuriate in the chaos, for it whispered sweetly: “You are enough.” But was I, though? That question, like a shadow, lurked in the corners of my mind, weaving in and out of the sunlight—always there, always gnawing. It seemed that at every crossroads of my life, in moments of choice, a cacophony of voices would erupt within: the skeptic, the idealist, the cynic, and the hopeful. Each would assert their jurisdiction, laying bare their arguments and counterarguments.

Was I worthy? Was I capable?

Why did I so easily slip into that slow descent of self-doubt? I took a symbolic step forward on the road, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, a punctuation to my thoughts. The air was thick with the scent of possibility, a mixture that invigorated and unsettled me. I gazed into the distance, where trees stood sentinel-like, their leaves whispering secrets only the wind could carry. Does everything have a purpose, a reason for being? What is mine? At this point, a question mark stretched infinitely across the landscape of my mind, and every answer I tried to conjure became like trying to catch smoke.

“Am I enough?” echoed through me again, and the question took on a form, a figure cloaked in gray, like fog at dawn. Was it so simple? How could I—could anyone—claim such a thing, so absolute, when life pulsed around us, constantly shifting, constantly demanding? I could feel threads of my past tugging at me. Choices made and unmade, roads not taken; each moment was like an anchor or a wing, setting me on course or dragging me down.

I remembered that summer in a small town where I had spent a few weeks with my grandmother, the sun dripping honey across the skin of my childhood. The laughter, light and unburdened, filled the air as we fished by the riverbank. The ripples in the water reflected more than just sun; they reflected possibility and joy, but even then, somewhere, in the crew of carefree thoughts, a voice would whisper, “You’re not enough.” Even as a child, I could feel the paradox brewing even then—the pressure of expectation mingling with the simplicity of existence. Striding forward, a swift breeze pushed against me, and the chaotic whispers became louder, vying for my attention. My hand came up to touch my chest—a silent tether against the noise.

“You are okay,” I reminded myself again.

Yet, the remnants of doubt clung to my skin like a bad perfume, lingering in the air. The recollections of a teacher who once said I lacked creativity infiltrated my current stride. Memories are relentless beasts, choosing to rear their heads at the most inopportune moments—gloating, maligning, or ennobling, depending on the template of our recollection.

Was it constant internal dissatisfaction that shaped my view? Did I become a prisoner of the mind or a poet of my narratives? Standing at the brink of existence, these invisible voices would scream: “The universe is indifferent!” and “You are but a speck!” Were they correct though? Were we not all struggling to find meaning in this beautifully messy, chaotic existence? As I slowly walked on this winding road, winding paths snaking through trees, I stumbled upon debris—discarded dreams, conversations half-remembered, choices unmade. Each item jostled something deep within, triggering reverberations of who I had been, or thought I was. An old notebook crammed full of poetry from my teenage years, pages frayed and discolored. I recalled the late-night scrawls fighting against the tide of high school indifference, battling against voices smothered by authority demanding uniformity.

“Creaking in the silence, I find myself; each word a battle against the tide,” I murmured, wondering if the ink of those pages still splattered my spirit. Perhaps this was me—an amalgam of lost pieces, a mosaic that shone with imperfection and beauty, stumbling into being.

But chaos!

Sweet chaos, kissed me softly. It invited me to celebrate the uncertainty ahead. Whatever lies beyond this bend—there would be richer colors to my painting, brighter notes to my yet unwritten symphony. Does our suffering teach us to welcome the shadows, or is it just life wrapped in its wise but tangled blanket? I wondered if the answers mattered as much as the questions themselves, each one a gateway to insight wrapped tightly around my heart. With that realization, the heavy weight would lift again, at least temporarily, like the morning fog chasing away the warming sun. The doubts, they whispered on, but now they felt more like gentle nudges rather than crushing blows. Perhaps I was more than those fears; I was the questions too.

So, I continued down the path, the road widening, branches arching like the arms of a loving essence. Sometimes our roads are long, and never seem to end, yet we keep walking and making our own footprints on these strange and at times unwelcoming paths. We do not know what lies ahead beyond all these obstacles that present us with their sudden and sometimes terrifying predicaments, yet deep down we know we have to keep going, for this is the only way we can overcome our internal fears.