This morning I woke up. The sounds of the day seeped through my rain-streaked windows. My body, chilled by perimenopausal night sweats, ached. I am used to discomfort.
This morning I woke up. And a thought came while I was busying myself, making my bed, shelving books and listening to the ding of my phone:
what if this is it?
If we make it through arduous task of materializing our existence and passing through the narrow canal of our mothers, we say to this world,
“I am here.”
For some who come to meet us, our arrival is enough. That we are here. That we made the journey safely is enough.
“You are here.”
I woke up this morning, you see. I glanced at social media, which tries to inform me that my life should be valued by percentages of views.
Your views are up 5% from yesterday. Your views are down -17% from last week.
I wonder when it begins, this messaging that what you do and…
You are not enough.
Is it the silent thought burning in hearts and minds of some of those who come to greet us on our first day in this world?
Is it in comparisons heard at home and school as we move through childhood?
Is it now at work?
It’s still morning. And, as I wrote, I woke up, perhaps again. I wondered, what if this life that I have lived and am living were my entirety.
Is it enough?
It is. And it isn’t.
There is much that I would still like to do while I am here. Still, I am done with having to prove my value. I have arrived at this point, without uncertainty:
I am here. I am enough.