She had this vision, this fantasy, that everything could be okay, if only she would finally be good.
If only she could finally be what everyone expected her to be.
If only she could finally learn how to juggle kids, work and marriage in a way that would make everyone around her happy.
If only she didn’t make any more mistakes.
If only she could finally learn how to be perfect.
Years later, she realised she couldn’t really remember much of what they call her best years. She had lost touch to most of her family, and she didn’t really know why. Her marriage had broken up when their third child was 2, around the time when sometimes she couldn’t even remember where she was, or when. They’d split amiably, saying they had grown apart. Her kids had left home early; they rarely called.
She couldn’t understand how all this happened: She had never thought of herself first, if at all. She had put all her life into nurturing her family. She had tried to achieve perfect motherhood – and lost herself on the way.
She had tried to become someone else, while the one person who could mend all this pain was herself. Her true, imperfect, wonderful self.
(Repeat as needed: You are enough.)