For as long as I can remember, the message was clear, be more, do more, give more. And yet, no matter how much I did, it was never quite right, never enough. This phrase “never enough” echoed quietly beneath the surface of my life, a constant hum in the background of my thoughts, my choices, my identity. It took years before I realized that I had internalized a system that thrived on my inadequacy.

Growing up in an environment that prized perfection cloaked in piety, I learned early that love and acceptance were conditional. In church, the sermons urged us to be holy, to be separate, to be pure. Any failure to meet these expectations was met with disappointment or worse, silence. I didn’t question it. It was just the way things were. I just kept trying to be better, to be good enough.

I tried to be the best, the best Christian, the best example. I led Bible studies, dressed modestly, try to avoid anything deemed “worldly,” and offered apologies before anyone had a chance to be upset. Whenever I engaged in “worldly” activities like watching movies or listening to secular music, I was overwhelmed with guilt, not just because I was letting down my parents or church leaders, but because I believed I was disappointing Jesus Himself. No matter how holy I tried to be the target always moved. If I met one expectation, another would arise. It was as though the rules were designed for the goal to be just out of reach. If I were thinner, quieter, more agreeable, more submissive, then maybe I would be enough. But I never was.

The heartbreaking thing about being stuck in this cycle is that it doesn’t ask you to improve for your own growth or joy, it asks you to shrink. The more I conformed, the less of myself I became. I began to doubt my own instincts. I didn’t voice my opinions and when I did I saw the disapproving looks on the faces of those around me. I knew what I liked and wanted, only to feel I should avoid or suppress them. I lived in fear of disappointing people whose approval I was taught to need in order to be loved, not just loved by them, but loved and accepted by God.

It took years of unlearning to realize that “never enough” wasn’t the truth. It was a tool, one used to control, to manipulate, to keep people (especially women) small and dependent. It kept me chasing validation from systems and people who had no intention of ever giving it. Because if I ever did feel like I was enough, I might stop complying. I might stop serving. I might stop performing. I might realize that I didn’t need them.

Healing means reclaiming the parts of myself I was told to cut away. It means understanding that my worth isn’t rooted in how well I follow someone else’s script. It means saying no without guilt and resting without shame. Most importantly, it means rejecting the lie that I am only as valuable as my church attendance and performance.

“Never enough” was never the truth. I am enough, not because of what I do or how I appear, but because I exist. And that is finally enough for me.

Grace costs nothing and requires nothing of me!