enough
I swear, some nights feel like war, like my mind and my body are stuck in a battle that neither of them signed up for. Like I’m running toward something I can’t see, but I still feel the weight of it chasing me, pushing, pulling— gravity made of guilt and ambition, dragging me somewhere between "not enough" and "too much." And me? I’m just here, lying awake at 3 a.m., rewriting the same sentence in my head: Why am I like this? Why do I wake up feeling behind in a race no one asked me to run? Why does life feel like a locked door and I’m the fool without a key? People say, "You’re worthy." "You’re enough." "You matter." And I nod, like I believe them, like I don’t spend every night replaying my own failures in slow motion, like my reflection doesn’t feel like a stranger I’ve been trying to make peace with. Because truth is— I don’t feel like enough. Not for love, not for purpose, not for the dreams that keep me gasping for air but never ...