“The hardest part of being a woman? Being too much and not enough all at once.”
Oh how those words did and do cause my heart to resonate with such a painful understanding. Tears well up in my eyes at the thought even now. Yes. That was the sentiment. That was the descriptor of my soul. That was desperately the very phrase I felt with every ounce of my being and every cell in my physical body. I felt as though I was too much and not enough.

I’m an odd personality. I stretch between overwhelming and underwhelming. Some days, when stress and anxiety rule my soul, my intensity takes over to make me terror. The kind that even those who love me would find hard to love. It’s like some deeply seeded survival skill takes over, trying to keep me alive. Trying desperately to keep me sane while lashing out to keep me defended. A whirlwind of emotions that can’t be held in, but everyone can’t handle and thus rejects.

Simultaneously, I am not enough. Not beautiful enough. Not good enough. Not strong enough or healthy enough. It’s as though every terrible ounce of my intensity has lashed out and then fled. I’ve crumbled beneath the weight into a useless bag of skin. Weeping within and discouraged so deeply that I have become the very ground others tread upon.
Where is that balance? How do I get it? When is there a point that I can be just the right amount? Just enough. Isn’t that all anyone ever wants to be? I do. I desire that. To be all things to all people. But at the same time, I am so great full for my imperfections. Grateful for the mess that is my life, because it allows me to connect to others who feel similar to myself. Why is it that pain draws others together so much better than happiness? No matter the answer, I am grateful for it.