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AM I GOOD ENOUGH: Introduction
What is it to exist, to breathe in the air thick with others’ expectations, to step lightly upon the terrain of their judgments, their whispers? I was a child once, a bright sunbeam of a child, or perhaps just a shimmering flame, desperate to shine but constrained, like a bird with clipped wings. “Mind others, listen to what they say,” my parents would chant, their voices a dissonant echo in my mind.
What if I didn’t want to..?
The notion of expressing myself, my thoughts, my own authenticity—absurdity, heresy! Forbidden fruit dangling just out of reach. I wasn’t meant to taste it, much less relish. I remember standing at the edge of what seemed to be an infinite sea, my reflection wobbling on the surface, trembling like a leaf in the wind. The waves formed crests and troughs around me, not yet tainted by the weight of my burdens. Heavy rocks littered the shore, and I wanted to toss them, to watch them sink and disappear, but no—I was told to sit still, to watch, to learn how to be an observer, a listener. The tide rolled in and out, relentless, just as life would be, dragging with it hopes and dreams I scarcely understood. “Be like the others,” my mother would whisper, a soft mantra laced with love, but love that felt like chains. Chains that bound my thoughts, my identity, numbing my ability to express, to shout, to cry out…
“I’m here! I exist!”
But how could I? The world had not crafted space for my voice, for my uniqueness. It was safer, simpler to blend, a chameleon who never learned its true colors. Thus, the question followed me through corridors of echoing doubt: “Am I good enough..?”
First days at school, the yawning hallways, crowded lunchrooms, my heart a caged dove beating against invisible bars. Glossy-eyed peers with easy laughter, classmates who seemed born to dazzle as offhandedly as the sun brightens the dawn. Did they not feel the weight? The gazes, the scrutiny dancing in eyes that sought to measure worth against curated standards? There I was, a quiet observer in a world painted in vivid strokes, yet all I had were the faintest smudges of my own hue, hardly a whisper. I learned quickly, survival was intertwined with adherence. Observe- the laughter, the whispers, the gentle nudges. Slip into their narratives—be clever, be kind, yet never shine too bright. Become what they want, mold yourself to fit their preconceptions. Be the clay, not the sculptor. The irony was not lost on me— I was the student shaping clay figures, stories and personalities for others, with my own voice silenced beneath layers of polite smiles and blushes of embarrassment- a stage with no spotlight, and I, a performer rehearsing in shadows.
Years rolled on.
High school rushed in like a wild river, full of excitement and treachery. Ah, the beauty of youthful chaos! Curfews and clandestine hangs, love scribbled on note sheets passed like secrets in the dead of night. Yet through it all, I feared to raise my hand, to declare an answer, to share an idea, the chains of indoctrination still clamping down like rusty shackles. Did I think differently? Did I read too deeply into matters? Or perhaps believing I had depths to explore was simply another mark of arrogance.
“Am I good enough..?”
The hum of disbelief continued its tune, a sordid lullaby.
I remember in school, I believe it was either a history or philosophy class, we once discussed the pursuit of existence, dissecting ideas of selfhood and morality like archaeologists adrift in time. Descartes, Kant, Nietzsche and others— their voices coursed through the room, and I felt a sense of subtle yet tight connection to those distant thinkers. Concepts of authenticity emerged; what a curious juxtaposition to my reality! “Man is condemned to be free,” a statement I echoed, internalized, yet never believed.
Condemned..? Could I be?
I jotted notes, scribbled thoughts that tumbled around in my mind, catching at the edges before dissipating into space. I saw them there— a fleeting thought of me, free and just…me.
Though the sincerity I yearned to express stood like an unlit candle on a table, a faint glow showing itself from time to time. I resented the voice inside that instructed me to hold back. “Just be yourself…” was what I longed for, but who was that self? Just another face molded by others’ hands, faces I wore as armor to shield against the unknown, the terrifying prospect of laid-bare vulnerability. Everything seemed fixed until the moment it wasn’t.
Then one spring afternoon, on a path worn down by countless steps, I hesitated. Orange blossoms danced on the breeze; sweetness enveloped me like a warm embrace. A stranger appeared- a mesmerizing spark in a sea of faces. He spoke freely about his thoughts and ideas, about art, and in that moment, he became my compass.
“Tell me, what do you feel? Who are you beneath these endless layers?”
I swallowed hard, my defenses crumbling like ancient walls under unseen tides. I wondered if this was what courage felt like—an aching, raw desire to unravel. That evening, beneath the canopy of stars, something shifted inside. The weight of the world—the pressure to conform—suddenly seemed to evaporate with the night air. What if I were to take that forbidden fruit, taste its richness? I dared to listen to myself, to think aloud, possibilities flinging forth like fireflies into the night sky.
“Am I good enough?” morphed, transformed—a question re-evaluated, re-formed, to “Am I here at all?” I began to embrace the imperfection of authenticity, allowing my true colors to drape over me like a stunning shawl woven from threads of experiences, passions, truths.
And there they glimmered.
I was soon reciting my own truths in that once-muted voice, letting the flames of self-acceptance roar brighter than ever before- my existence, a singular note in a larger symphony, perhaps even a crescendo. I was learning to shatter the mirrors reflecting others’ images and behold, at last, the contours of my soul, unbridled and authentic. So, here I stand now, wandering through this vivid mirror of life, still asking, but now with anticipation.
“Am I good enough..?”
And in that question, I find freedom, for the answer is a resounding “Yes.” It spirals through the air with all the depths of the world, and I realize at last, I am good enough precisely as I am—simple, complex, and wholly authentic. However, this very realization did not come easy, for I had to go through some excruciating pain in order to fully understand its priceless meaning.
