I make $21 an hour. My fiancée and I own a home in a quiet Baltimore neighborhood, surrounded by public parks and everything we need within a 15 minute bike ride. I have health insurance. I have a basement gym, littered with cheap metal plates and ragged barbells. I have running, clean water and air conditioning. I have a paid off car. I have retirement funds, an excess of soccer jerseys and a job I (mostly) like. I have a third place to exist in, a good soccer team to watch, and close friendships I can confide in. Most of those friends, as well as my family, are in good health. I have no worries of imminent war or persecution by some “other”. I have an unlimited pool of media to dive into. I can walk and breathe and run and lift and do whatever I wish that’s within reason. 

And, yet, there is this nagging feeling that this life is not enough. 

My creative output hasn’t been what I want it to be, ever. I’m not the weight or BMI that I want. I’m not organized enough or I’m too spontaneous or not spontaneous enough. I don’t feel comfortable having conversations with people or looking them in the eye as if they’ll see the real me and decide it’s not worth the time. I don’t make enough mead or music or clean my house enough. I don’t make enough correct decisions. I don’t have enough money or power or friends. People don’t find me well read enough, smart enough, interesting enough, strong enough. In essence, I don’t feel I or my life is good enough for myself or others.

Enough, always enough. This eternal moving benchmark. 

I can’t seem to balance my expectations with my capabilities. Sometimes I’m out for a penny, in for a pound. I won’t shut the cabinet but I will spend an hour scrubbing dishes. I won’t send an email but I’m never overwhelmed when maintaining 7,000 trees sprinkled around Baltimore. I’m proud of my college degree but not of the little benchmarks I hit while getting it. 

And sometimes I’m in for a penny, out for a pound. I’ll read the first 5 pages of a book to start a new one by page 6. I’ll do my lifting but I avoid dieting, mobility training and getting my cardio. I love starting projects but couldn’t be bothered to continue once the glow of novelty is gone. 

This disconnect of my needs, wants and my own abilities that tug at my attention is not a unique experience, I’m sure of it. I think this tugging is sometimes good; it is the check engine light of the brain. But I think my wiring got all crossed up. I can’t seem to know when to open the cab and check for leaks or when it’s just a faulty sensor.

What’s the point? I started this project to allow myself to make things and put them out into the sea of the internet. That hasn’t really happened. I’ve been either too lazy, too scared of others or too impatient with my process to make it happen. I have only written about soccer and, while I love the sport, I think I did it because I can package my feelings in a sport so universally loved. 

Ze Frank, a youtuber I was obsessed with late in high school, has a video on public speaking that I often think about. In it, Ze talks about sometimes needing a talk that’s solely about being honest. Talking about your fears or worries and, in doing that, you will find what you are sure of. 

This is me being honest. I don’t want to stand in this horrible space between 0 and 1. I don’t think I’ll ever get to the point where I think it’s all good enough and I think my abilities are good enough.

I want to think it’s you who is holding me back. But having written this, I know it’s me. I write so I can communicate my ideas that I can’t say in conversation (most of them). I’m also afraid my writing won’t be able to communicate those things either. I’m scared this is the best way I can do it and that might not even be good enough. 

Again, enough. Enough with the enoughs.

Here’s me and all my honest thoughts. I hope I like it.