You Are Enough

Tonight, in a moment of haphazard honesty, as we cuddle on your tiny mattress on the floor, your sweet little three-year-old voice tells me that your hair is different than your sister's. 

She has short, curly, blond hair. 

You have long, straight, brown hair like me. 

I know it's been bothering you. You don't say much when you're upset, and you've been inching towards this conversation for a couple of days. I see you holding yourself together. 

"People sure talk about your sister's hair a lot, don't they?" I say quietly. 

I watch your face melt into a puddle in front of my eyes. I see it. That first pang of inadequacy that I know too well. That initiation into the world of comparison. That unfair moment when you acknowledge that something you have isn't what someone else wants from you.

 

"That has to get old." I say to you. 

I wish this were the last time you would find yourself at the mercy of someone else's judgement.

But, Darling, this is just the beginning. 

It is just the first time you will hear that you are not enough. 

It is just the first time you will hear that your worth hinges on your appearance. 

It is just the first time you will hear that there is a hierarchy of beauty, and that you fall short of the top. 

For you will hear that you are not tall enough. Too tall.

Not thin enough. Too thin. 

Not curvy enough. Too curvy.

Not dark enough. Too dark. 

Not light enough. Too light. 

Not pretty enough. Too pretty. 

You will hear that the other girl's eyes are prettier. 

That her clothes are nicer. 

That her hair is longer. 

That her body is prettier. 

That her teeth are straighter. 

That her nose is cuter. 

That her legs are smaller. 

You will hear a million times over how you don't measure up.

And as I lay here, your big brown eyes looking up into mine, I wish I could take that all away from you. Oh, how I wish I could shield you from the ugliness that is comparison.

But I can't. I know I can't. 

So I tell you that I remember a time when I wished I had blond hair like my sister. That I wanted to have hair just like her, not my brown hair. 

But then, I grew up, I tell you, and I had a baby of my own- with brown hair and brown eyes, just like me. And I was so happy that she looked like me.

You've moved on, now, as three year olds do. You're singing songs and not going to sleep. 

And I've come downstairs to lay my head on the kitchen table and cry. 

It's not fair, Baby. 

It will never, ever be fair. 

People will use you and judge you and compare you all your life. They will find your value in the way you look. In the things you can do for them. In the all the things that have nothing to do with your value at all. 

And they're going to do it whether I like it or not. 

But here, in this home, it will not be this way. 

We will not compare each other. 

We will not value one's attributes over another. 

In this home, we will love each other well. 

And when the world wears you down, and you feel less than adequate, you can come back home. And I will be waiting here for you, always, telling you that you are enough.

 

Demand And Supply

He always had an attraction to that which would catch the eye. A lover of the impressive. A collector of sorts. 

So that he stopped to admire her should have been no surprise. 

She was lovely- a young seedling, brimming with potential. He looked at her approvingly and dreamed of what she might be. He took a small piece of one of her delicate leaves and found that it was good to eat. 

Soon, he knew, she would begin to produce bigger, more flavorful leaves. She would bloom and her flowers would be beautiful. 

He needed her. He wanted her. He had to have her. 

So he claimed her as his own. He watered her daily. He showered her with attention and meticulous care. He watched as she grew and sprouted new leaves, and he took the ones that pleased him. 

Those that passed would see him working tirelessly for her, day and night. 

"What a loving caretaker!" they said among themselves. "When does he ever rest?" 

He heard their whispers of approval and beamed with satisfaction. His work was just beginning. 

The days passed, and she sprouted branches, each with new leaves of their own. And each time he returned, he happily took what he wanted. 

One or two leaves. Or three. 

When she looked healthy, maybe more. 

He came back to water her, with the knowledge that everything he gave her would be replenished and would reward him twofold.

He was drawn back to her day after day. He craved the taste, the fulfillment, the satisfaction. He needed more. 

So he took more. 

And more. 

And as time went on, he began to test the limits of just how many leaves he could take without destroying her. 

Just one more. 

Maybe two. 

Until one day, he began to notice that new leaves had not been sprouting as quickly. That no flowers were appearing like he had imagined. That she was looking wilted. This beautiful plant he had dreamed of was not materializing. 

She was broken, he realized. 

After all he had done to nurture her? It wasn't right. He deserved better. 

Everyone could attest to it- he gave her his all. Every passerby knew of his devotion to her. 

He should have been getting something back in return, he thought. It was only fair. 

He watered her a bit more, holding back his frustration. Maybe she just needed time. 

So he waited until new leaves sprouted.

And they did- small, bright, new little leaves. He was pleasantly satisfied and gleaned to his delight. 

But in the next coming days, again no new leaves sprouted. He watched and waited in frustration. He came back to water her in hopes that she would have something for him. But nothing appeared. 

Days passed. 

Still nothing. 

She was wilted and sick. People no longer noticed her like they had before. They still saw that he was working tirelessly for her, but their acknowledgement fell flat to him, as he waited there, empty handed. She gave him nothing anymore. 

He waited a bit longer in hopes that she would redeem herself. That something would change. 

But it didn't. She only grew weaker. 

So when something caught his eye down the road- new plants, full and ready to be picked- his mind was made up. He had no more time to wait and watch her die. 

She was not what he had hoped for. She was useless to him now. 

And there was more to be had just down the road. 

And with that, he stomped her a few times into the dirt, crushing what was left of her wilting form. If he didn't need her, no one did. 

And he left to glean what he wanted elsewhere. 

Those that used to watch him caring for his plant stopped to question him. Why had he abandoned her? What made him leave? He had loved her so much, they thought. 

His anger spilled from his mouth as he told them how much time and energy he had wasted on her. How he devoted everything he was into helping her grow. How he watered her with fervor.

How one day, she stopped producing leaves. How she never even bloomed. 

That she was sick. Weak. Broken. 

That he tried. Oh, how he tried. 

But he couldn't wait forever. She asked for too much and gave nothing in return. She took advantage of him. She took his care for granted. She wanted his care and yet deprived him of the only thing he expected of her.

And some would nod their heads in understanding. Some would join him in his rage.

"How unfair!" They would say. 

They would urge him to move on and find something better- something more deserving of his tireless devotion. They would console him in his grief and ache in sympathy of the unjust betrayal thrust upon him. 

They would encourage him to be strong. To keep his head up. 

But as they kept him company in his anger and misery, something began to happen just back up the road.

The wilted flower, stomped into the dirt, crushed and crumpled and left to die, began to find life again. Her roots had been planted deeply and firmly in the ground. And a new shoot emerged.

Leaves began to sprout. 

Branches. 

More leaves. 

And the sunlight poured in on her, multiplying her strength each day. 

No longer was she wilted. Weak. Dying. 

No longer was she struggling to nourish herself with half of her resources. She could flourish, and bloom, and grow how she should have all along. 

And she did. 

With no one taking what she needed to thrive, she thrived. 

With no one taking what she needed to grow, she grew. 

With no one taking more than what she could give, she produced more than ever before. 

And now, down the road, another depleted plant begins to wilt. It will be discarded soon enough, and another will take its place. 

And so the cycle will continue.

Demand and supply. 

Discover and discard.

But she, lucky enough to be left behind, will bloom and thrive, and let the cycle of misery continue somewhere else down the road. 

The Things You Don't Own Anymore

I've started over many times over the last decade.

Building, collecting, clinging, dreaming. 

And then- trashing, destroying, forgetting.

Repeat. 

Repeat.

Repeat. 

Everything you left, every time, I discarded. I wanted nothing left to remember you by. 

Delete the pictures. Delete the songs. 

Crumpled love notes at the top of an overflowing bin. 

I drove the long way to avoid our places. I swore off anything on which lingered your touch, your scent, your ghost. 

Trash. Destroy. Forget. 

But with each repeated cycle, as I threw away pieces of you, with them I threw away pieces of myself.

My favorite songs. 

My favorite foods. 

My favorite clothes. 

My favorite memories. 

Trashed. Destroyed. 

Forgotten. 

And here I am again, looking at the remains of what you left in your hurried escape, and the old pattern tugs on me. 

Nostalgia stirs my core. Fights a battle with my disgust. With my regret. With my anger. With my grief. 

Oh, to start a life with a blank slate- to begin with that innocence, that wide-eyed optimism, that blind trust that you never earned, respected, or deserved. 

But that blank slate is a lie. An imagined possibility that does nothing but rob me of the things I loved. 

So I won't be trashing- not this time. I won't destroy the little pieces of rubble you left behind. 

I don't want to forget. 

Because I own these things. 

I own my memories. 

This song isn't the one we listened to together. 

It's just one that I love.

This restaurant isn't where you took me.

It's a place I love to eat.

This room isn't the one where you first kissed me. 

It's just a room- and you don't come here anymore. 

This wine isn't the one you brought home for me. 

It's my favorite wine. 

This spot on the couch isn't the place I sat when you announced your grand exit. 

It's just my favorite place to sit. 

This bed isn't our bed. 

This home isn't our home. 

This family isn't our family. 

My emotions aren't yours. 

My time isn't yours. 

My thoughts aren't yours. 

My decisions aren't yours. 

They're mine. 

And you own nothing of mine anymore.