More Than Enough

I forget how hard I’ve worked to make it to “okay.”

My life has a steady rhythm — a job I enjoy, paid bills with a little leftover to have some fun, time and energy for my creative pursuits. I’m addicted to the stillness; to the freedom found in routine.

The proverbial mountaintop teases me via my social media feeds. I could be better traveled. Open to sharing my life with a partner. Have less back fat and thicker eyebrows and clearer skin. Get an agent and pitch my writing to real publications. Ground myself in mystical, spiritual practice. Attend more hashtag-titled parties in glittery dresses.

Sometimes I look around at my cozy little spot on the mountain side and wonder why it is enough.

Then I look down.

The climb to this plateau was a bitch.

The scars have faded but every now and then, I touch the bruises I’ve acquired scrapping and clawing to this point. I did not settle for “okay.” I bled for it.

I remember when I couldn’t even see the point of steppin’ out the muthafuckin’ house. Let it go, let it go, let it gooooo. We came too far…

— Anderson .Paak, “Celebrate.”

This quiet little life of mine with its structures and routines is beautiful because I made it so. The mountaintop is alluring, but I’ve tilled this soil. Right here. I am grateful to sip wine and watch its flowers bloom.

I am okay. And it is more than Enough.

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a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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