The moon pulled at me last night, and it wouldn’t let go until I did.
Every time I unclench my hands, I begin to fill up, to rest, to receive. Even though it is the thing I am meant to do, it is hard to learn to uncurl these fingers. They have been this way since I can remember, and I don’t know what I will do with my hands when they aren’t balled up tight in a fist. What will I protect if not myself?
For most of my life, I was a woman who tried to prove herself. I did it at home, first, but then, I did it in school, with my peers, on and off a stage, in college, at work, with men, with my family, with myself. If you asked me if I was enough, I would have told you, YES! Now, watch me prove it.
On my “bad” days, I thought I had failed at proving myself, and so the shame and the anxiety would swoop in and swallow me up. But, I’d find my way out by telling myself that I “can be better.” By fixing me. By fixing things. By making things look better, so they would feel better, and I would know better. I would prove it.
But, I don’t want to prove it anymore. I don’t want to try to make it obvious. As it turns out, Enough isn’t something you can prove and show, anyway. Only I can feel it for myself, and nobody else can find it or see it or prove it to me. I don’t want to fight for it, or shout for it, or rage for it. I don’t want to search for it, or long for it, or strive for it. It’s a sacred thing I have that I never have to work for, and I just want to sit here with it and wrap myself up in it and say thank you and give nothing in return.
I am enough.
The moon pulled and reached and stretched and grabbed for me, last night. It kept coming back, and pulling harder, and it only let go when I did. There we were, open hands, shining at one another. Me, enough. The moon, my reminder.
You don’t have to prove it. You only have to let it.
I am enough. You are, too.