Remembering I Am Enough
Transmuting the Lie of Too Much and Not Enough
I feel it rising again—that pull in opposite directions. That ache in my chest. That strange tension in my belly that tells me something old is moving through. The part of me that wants to speak up, shine, stretch wide into my full expression gets met with the voice that whispers, you’re too much. Almost immediately, another one follows it, quieter but just as sharp, saying, you’re not enough.
This dance has lived in me for a long time. Longer than I realized. Longer than I gave myself permission to name. It didn’t start with me. It’s ancestral. It’s a residue passed down through the lineage, through the silences at dinner tables, the glances of disapproval, the words that were never spoken but were always felt. I inherited the way too muchness was punished and how not enoughness was buried under high expectations. I learned how to read the room before I learned how to trust myself.
There’s nothing natural about this split. This contradiction is conditioning. It’s a program that runs deep, shaped by family systems, schooling, religion, media, trauma, capitalism, and whatever else tries to tell me who I should be. It lives in the moments when I dim my light so others feel more comfortable. When I second-guess my brilliance before I even speak. When I pretend I don’t need rest, don’t need softness, don’t need love, so I can be seen as strong.
But strength isn’t the absence of need. Strength is presence. It is truth. It is the willingness to feel what’s uncomfortable and stay connected anyway. That’s the mastery I move toward. Not the polished kind that wears a perfect face—but the honest kind that says, I’m in the thick of it, and I’m still here.
This story that I am too much and not enough at the same time has taken up too much space in my spirit. I no longer feed it. I see it. I recognize its voice. I call it what it is—a lie that once protected me but no longer serves me. A survival mechanism that helped me feel safe, wanted, and included in rooms that were never built for my full expression. And now, I choose to let it unravel.
I return to my breath. I return to my body. I remind myself that I don’t need to make sense to anyone else. My worth is not something to be calculated or earned. It is not fragile. It is not conditional. It is not for negotiation.
I was born with it. I carry it in my voice, in my hands, in my joy, in my pain. Even when I feel uncertain, I know I am still whole.
This is what transmutation looks like. Not bypassing the discomfort, but meeting it with clear eyes and a steady heart. Feeling the emotion without letting it define me. Holding space for the fear without shrinking beneath it. I let the sensations move through. I speak to the wounded parts of myself with compassion and curiosity. I ask what they need, and I listen.
I don’t rush this process. I honor its pace. I honor my own capacity. Some days the remembering is easy. Other days it feels far away. But it always returns when I come back to myself.
These life experiences have given me the wisdom and the courage to keep exploring who I am beneath the conditioning. They’ve taught me how to meet myself with grace, to dig deeper, to witness my truth without judgment. I’ve learned how to release stagnant energy and pain. I’ve learned to let go of attachments that no longer serve my highest good. Each time I do, I clear space for more breath, more truth, more freedom. I trust this rhythm. I trust what leaves, and I trust what stays.
I refuse to carry stories that don’t belong to me. I am not here to uphold the projections of others. I am not here to tone myself down or perform perfection. I am here to be real. To be present. To be free.
Every time I say no to the old pattern and yes to my truth, I reclaim something. I repair the connection. I give my younger self something she never had—a home inside me where she is safe, seen, and sacred.
This work is not just for me. It is for everyone who was told to quiet their magic. For everyone who was made to feel like love was something to earn. For everyone who learned to live in the gray space between too much and not enough.
You don’t have to stay in that in-between space. You don’t have to contort yourself to fit someone else’s idea of worthy. You don’t have to explain why you feel what you feel.
You get to be enough now. You already are.
When the old stories resurface, I come back to my center. These mantras help me remember what’s true—
- I honor my fullness without apology.
- I meet myself with grace, even in the mess.
- I release every story that taught me to shrink.
- I carry the wisdom of those who came before me, and I choose a new path.
- I do not chase worthiness. I embody it.
- I allow myself to feel deeply without judgment.
- I am safe to be seen. I am safe to be still.
- I soften where I once hardened. I expand where I once held back.
- I remember who I am, and that is more than enough.
I don’t just say these words—I breathe them. I let them settle in my bones, in my belly, in my energy field. I let them guide me back to myself, again and again.
If you’re moving through this too, you don’t have to do it alone. When you’re ready to explore the roots, reclaim your truth, and embody your enoughness—I hold space for that. You’ll find offerings, words, and ways to work with me at Healing through Visions. Let it meet you where you are.