I Am Enough. This has been my mantra for the last several years as I’ve worked to replace the limiting belief of “not enough” that has taken up space in my brain for the better part of my life. Not enough time, not enough money, not enough approval, not enough vacation, not enough education, not enough exercise, not enough job opportunities, not enough interest, not enough effort, not pretty enough, not good enough, not enough, not enough, not enough.
We live in a society that demands more, more, more, so it’s no wonder that we’re frequently left feeling that what we have, what we do, or who we are is inadequate. The more we feel we need, the less we think we have, resulting in an underlying current of “not enough” that shapes how we feel about ourselves and how we move through life. While I’ve made a conscious effort to limit my exposure to TV and magazine ads and the ideas of what society expects me to have, some of these beliefs and feelings of lack and inadequacy were learned at a young age, when we were too young to realize the power of the stories we’re told and the stories we hold. I was around 10 years old the first time I remember feeling that I was not enough, and it’s a memory that has followed and guided me all of my life, whether with acute awareness or living deep below the surface.
It was a Friday evening at the BBQ Hut. My dad had just picked up my older brother and me for the weekend and we arrived for dinner at the usual hangout owned by some of Dad’s friends. Everyone knew him when we walked in the door, and you could see him puff up with pride under his t-shirt, purposely worn a size too small to show off his broad chest. We sat in a booth near the kitchen and a Pamela Anderson-like waitress swiftly came over to greet us. She had blond hair parted down the middle and feathered on the sides in typical early 80s style, short shorts snug around her small waist and cleavage peeking out from her V-neck BBQ Hut t-shirt. I admired how pretty she was and hoped that I would eventually “lose the baby fat,” as my family often said, and grow up to look like her one day. I was wearing my favorite Gloria Vanderbilt jeans with the little swan stitched on the coin pocket, and thought I was so cool in my stylish clothes at this restaurant where I felt known and special. After Pam Anderson delivered our drinks and took our order, I grew bored with the conversation and excused myself to the bathroom, but really to roam around the restaurant, pretending I was the pretty waitress. I was happy to see Pam Anderson delivering our food when I returned to the table.
“Oh, I love your jeans,” she smiled at me, “are those Gloria Vanderbilt?”
I bubbled up with pride, thrilled that she noticed my keen fashion sense, but before I had a chance to respond, Dad chimed in quickly with “they should be called Amy Better-built.”
As he and my brother erupted into laughter, I felt that a joke had been made at my expense. To me, their laughter meant that I was not “built” to their standards of how a girl should look. I felt my face flush red, my shoulders drop and my heart sink into my stomach. I was too embarrassed to look at Pam Anderson anymore. I felt like my dad had brought to her attention what wasn’t seen before. I didn’t have pretty blond hair or a small waist and probably couldn’t even fit into her short shorts. I was suddenly comparing myself to a 20-something waitress and feeling inadequate. What I heard my dad saying was that I should be “better built.” I wasn’t blond enough, pretty enough, thin enough, good enough. This is the story that I began to believe.
My dad wasn’t a bad or intentionally mean person; he just liked to get laughs and it was all in good fun. I’m sure he didn’t put any thought into how his joke might affect my confidence or self-esteem. If I’d ever had the courage to talk to him about it, he probably wouldn’t even have remembered it at all.
But those words stayed with me and have followed me for a long time.
Amy Better-built. You could be better. I would love you more if you were prettier. I would be proud of you if you lost weight. I wouldn’t laugh at you if you were different. You are not enough as you are.
While the joke was real, the rest is just a story I created. Stories shape us but they are not who we are. And while I have known this to a certain degree, the 10-year-old little girl that felt those big feelings still lives within. I never used to like looking back on pictures of myself at that age. I wanted that little girl to look different, to be better. I’ve only recently been able to look at her with love and compassion. I see her insecurity and want to hug her and tell her she’s beautiful and smart and will do great things in life. It has taken me a long time to get there, to know that I am Better Built, not because of how I look or how I thought I needed to improve, but because I’ve done the work to accept myself just as I am.
I’ve evolved into a confident woman who knows that I am more than enough.
We are not our stories or memories. We are not the things people said or the way we felt for a moment in time. We are human and divine and perfectly imperfect. We make mistakes. We learn, we grow, we change. And we are always enough. I am enough. You are enough. We are more than enough, just as we are.
Sharing our stories can be tough. It has taken me a long time to be able to share this one. But sharing our truth and vulnerability helps us to connect more deeply and know that we are not alone. Have you had an experience, ten years ago or ten days ago, that made you feel unworthy or not enough? Drop a comment below or email me to share. I’d love to hear your story.
“Amy Better-Built” around 10 years old