What If My Best Will Never Be Enough?

I don’t even know when it started to feel this heavy.

Maybe it was that one group meeting where my idea was ignored—again—and someone else rephrased it 10 minutes later, and everyone clapped.

Maybe it was the time I worked until 2:00 AM three nights in a row, only for my boss to say, “You missed a spot.”

Maybe it was the slow fade of someone I loved… who said I was “too much” and “too sensitive” when all I really wanted was to be seen.

Or maybe it was just years of holding it all together, quietly.

You know that kind of tired?
The kind where you’ve done everything “right,”
but still feel like you’re losing?

I was the fixer in my family. The achiever at school. The one who handled logistics when things got messy at home. The one who made sure everyone else was okay—even when I wasn’t.

I gave my best to everything.
Work. Ministry. My friends.
Even a relationship that honestly left me emptier than when I started.

He didn’t cheat. But he slowly made me question myself.
Why are you so emotional?
Do you really need to talk about that again?
Just chill out.
You’re lucky I understand you—I don’t think anyone else would.

At first, I laughed it off.
Later, I believed him.

I stopped reaching out to friends, stopped being honest in my group, and started avoiding deep questions. Even with God.

I didn’t realize how much I’d buried until I found myself crying in the car at 11:30 PM after yet another exhausting day where I tried to hold everything together… and no one even noticed.

That night, I scrolled Instagram to numb myself and stumbled on a random post that said:

“You are allowed to fall apart. That doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human.”

Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

I saved it, but didn’t open my Bible. Not yet.
But I did cry. Really cry. Not because everything hurt, but because I finally allowed myself to feel it.

The next week, I joined a church service after months of being MIA. I didn’t expect much—just wanted to sit in the back and breathe. But God had other plans.

Someone I barely knew tapped me after service.
“Hey… would you be open to joining a coaching group we’re starting? Just a small one. No pressure.”

I almost said no.
But something in me whispered, You need to be seen.
So I showed up.

And it was awkward at first. I hated talking about myself. I didn’t like saying “I’m not okay.”
But somewhere between our second and third sessions, I admitted it out loud:

“I don’t think I’ll ever be enough. No matter what I do, it never feels like it’s working.”

I cried. They didn’t rush to fix me.
They just stayed.
And that’s what began to heal me.

Not answers.
Not instant change.
Just presence.

That coaching group became my safe space. Not a perfect one—but a real one.
And slowly, I’m learning that I was never meant to earn my worth.

I still show up. I still give my best.
But now, I’m okay if that’s not enough for everyone—because I’m finally believing it’s enough for God.
And that’s changing everything.

If you’re there too—overworked, overlooked, quietly unraveling—I hope you know this:

You’re not broken because you feel broken.
You’re not weak for wanting rest.
You’re not a burden just because you need help.

You’re human.
And that’s not just okay—it’s holy ground.

With quiet hope,

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