There's a child inside me,
A child who still wonders if I've done enough to be loved,
To be safe,
To be held.
This child asks,
Have I cried enough for you to see me?
Have I proven enough for you to choose me?
Have I performed enough for you to stay?
But now,
I place a hand on my heart and I whisper back,
I see you,
I won't leave you.
You don't have to cry enough for me to stay.
You don't have to prove enough for me to love you.
And you don't have to do anything but breathe.
You are enough.
And the body still remembers,
Of course.
Sometimes stillness feels like danger.
Sometimes peace feels like a trap.
Sometimes enoughness feels like boredom.
But I am learning to stay,
To sit with the fear,
To breathe through the panic,
To hold the small one inside me when they ask,
Are you sure,
Are you sure I don't have to do more?
And I say again,
I am here,
I will not leave,
You are safe with me.
This is the proof,
Not in the tears,
Not in the performance,
Not in the evidence I once thought I needed.
The proof is in the staying.
Every time I stay instead of abandon,
I grow the muscle of enoughness.
Every time I choose presence over performance,
I tell my child,
Love does not leave,
I will not leave.
And maybe if you are listening,
You can tell your child the same.
You can place a hand on your heart,
Breathe deep into your body and whisper,
I see you,
I will not leave you,
You are safe with me.
You are enough,
Always enough.