SB LACROIX

The curse of perfectionism laid its heavy hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, counting all the ways I wasn’t good enough. I thought I’d learned not to listen to those whispers, but it appeared I was falling susceptible to them once again.

I waited for the feeling to pass. A day or two slipped by, yet still it lingered. Not good enough, never will be—why even bother? As I contemplated, a question arose in my mind: By whose standards was I not good enough? Were these standards set by me? And if they were not set by me, then did they even matter?

I would answer myself on day only to refute that answer the next. Good enough was a transient feeling, one that would come and go. Good enough was merely a perception, nothing more than a state of mind. It most certainly was not a cold, hard, fact written in stone somewhere for all eternity.

Some days I’d feel good enough, and others, not so much. Either way it really didn’t matter. I was simply me, and that alone was good enough.