The Origins of Not Enough

This week we've been talking about this sense of not enoughness that so many of you have resonated with. If feeling we are not enough is so negative, and so unnecessary, then why do we experience it? Where does it come from?

Whenever I begin my work with my clients, I always ask them to tell me their life story, beginning with what it was like being a kid in their family. After more than 15 years of asking this question of hundreds of human beings, I can say that this sense of not enoughness comes from experiences that shaped us when we were young.

Sometimes it's grounded in trauma: death of a loved one, drug or alcohol addiction, abuse, physical or mental illness, constant severe conflict between parents, and the list goes on.

Sometimes it's more benign, like having parents who were busy working, leaving kids to take care of themselves at a young age. Or high achiever parents who expect and accept nothing less than perfection from themselves and their children.

I've heard and held thousands of your heart-wrenching stories and here's the thing. No matter how dramatic/traumatic the situation was, we all evolve a Heroic Strategy to cope, navigate and indeed, survive.  

I'll share more about the three buckets that these Heroic Strategies fall into: Capability, Perfection and Adoration, in the coming days.

For now, another (longer) poem. It's called Ode to a Lost Childhood and I wrote it this spring one morning in a moment of grace and clarity after a walk to my beloved flower park at the top of the bluffs near my home in Toronto.

If you can see yourself in this piece, know that you are not alone!

Ode to a Lost Childhood

running
jumping for joy
dusty legs
pebbles stuck
between my toes
wind-tousled hair
sun-kissed cheeks

this is the childhood that
was too quickly lost
in favour of grades and studying
and achievement and setting
yourself up well for the future 

also the adults
who were
supposed to nurture us
were preoccupied with
grown-up things
so we learned
if we needed it
to get it ourselves

latch-key mini-chefs
a long welt on my left arm
from where the red-hot
element singed my flesh
as I lifted the tray of
dense lasagne I had prepared
out of the oven to serve
my siblings their dinner
I was only ten or eleven
years old at the time|
But who’s counting?

tender aged independence
don’t do something for
a child that they can do
for themselves, they say
for some like me
it went too far
in reverse 

I don’t know which is more heartbreaking
The child who became a
grown-up far too early?
The grown-ups who
failed to notice her pain?

my four year old niece
knows already
to sit quietly and wait
while I check my phone
a stark difference
from my own teenaged boys who
still remember what it was
like when I was present with them

they make loving
then sarcastic
comments about the
tech ban
that doesn’t work
both ways
and when I finally
distractedly look up
…because I just need to finish THIS first…
they’ve already given up
and gone away

What’s the point?
she’s more interested in her email, Facebook,
LinkedIn, who is doing what out there
than anything we could need or offer

when I’m finally ready
I find them on the Xbox
or Snapchatting
zoned out
too busy for me now
an ironic consequence

I don’t know which is more heartbreaking
The little girl who has
only known distraction?
My boys who remember
different times?

anger, separation, an endless
litany of guns, voluntarily
terrorizing ourselves over and
over again with our choices of
what to watch, what to consume
what goes viral, what becomes normal

I don’t know which is more heartbreaking
My own fascination with what is wrong?
Our mutual acceptance of our unimportance?
The planet and our great human family
hurtling towards extinction?

my heartbreak leads me out
this morning
off the treadmill of habit
to a slow walk
on snow-dusted icy streets
treacherously healing

one foot carefully placed down
before committing my weight
to that leg
testing for slipperyness or grip
focused on reading the land
to find the surest path forward

memories of the innocent days
of skipping
jumping
running
and tumbling
trickle back in
around the edges of
my reverie

along with
sharp breaths
periodically punctuating
this song when I slide
never falling
on hidden ice
awakening me to my fragility
underneath all this competence

I followed the footprints
in the snow today
to my special spot
at the bluffs, thinking,
I’m not the only person
who is drawn to stand here
and gaze at the splendour
and peace and serenity
of the morning sun

to let the world of cars
and deadlines fade away
and hear the cheerful birdsong
of hope as spring dawns

I am older now
approaching the “half-time” as
one forty-something social media
superstar assures me
It’s not too late, he shouts,
you have a whole other half of your life
to create what matters

I don’t know what to do now
many mattering threads float
around me like wispy trails of smoke
from a wood-fired stove
(I smelled that on my return today
walking on Kingston Road
why does it smell like the country
on this busy street, I recall thinking)

I have been grieving
this lost childhood
since I was five years old
maybe longer
because I’m not really sure
at what age I began to care
for my little brother

who will take care of him
if I don’t? I wondered
they’re so busy yelling
they haven’t noticed that
he doesn’t know how to
put his shirt, socks and pants
by himself
or use a spoon to eat his soup
without spilling it down
the front of his t-shirt

for many years all it
took was the sound of a
baby or small child crying
to set me off
fountains of tears
with no notice
even in public places

it’s embarrassing
to cry so easily
and trying to stop it
is fruitless
then it comes out
a graceless explosion
from my nose
better to surrender
let the well of grief through 

is it any wonder then
that all I want to do
now is play
make art
write poems
go outside
create films
host gatherings
coach basketball
cook delicious food
and eat it 

Is this my second half?
A return to the careless, playful, freedom of childhood?
Could this be the remedy for me, for my children, for the planet?

All I know is useless now
guidance says it is time
to be free, dance joyously,
purposelessly
simply for the fun of it 

I don’t know which is more heartbreaking
A life of purpose set aside
in favour of play when
there is so much work
to be done?
The cost of denying
myself this healing
that this lost little girl
so desperately craves?

- by Shahmeen Sadiq