When Enough Never Feels Like Enough

Photo by Joseph Greve on Unsplash

I have spent most of my life measuring my worth by what I can do for others—by the work I produce, the relationships I maintain, and the way I make people feel. It’s a quiet desperation, a constant need for validation, as if someone else’s approval could finally be the thing that makes me feel whole. But it never is. The feeling lingers, like chasing the horizon, always just out of reach.

I also avoid conflict at all costs.

If someone is upset, I twist myself into something palatable, someone easy to be around. I scramble to fix things before they can break, but the cracks are always there, beneath the surface. A slight change in tone, an unanswered message, a shift in energy—each one sends me spiraling, convinced I’ve done something wrong. I run calculations in my mind, replaying interactions, and searching for the misstep, the mistake, or the moment someone decided I wasn’t enough.

I want to distract myself with something, to stay busy enough to forget, but there’s no work important enough to bury myself in and no social circle that can comfort me. If I play the part well enough, maybe I won’t hear the thoughts whispering underneath it all like the old fears, the unanswered questions, and the insecurity rooted deep in abandonment.

I carry it in the way I hesitate before I speak, the way I scan people’s reactions, and the way I reshape myself depending on who’s in front of me.

This is exhausting.

Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to words that articulate what I’ve struggled to name. Hunter S. Thompson once wrote:

“I think is the most important thing a writer can have: the ability to live with constant loneliness and a strong sense of revulsion for the banalities of everyday socializing.”

He saw the empty pleasantries, the forced smiles, the small talk that barely scratches the surface as distractions—noise, keeping him from something deeper. I resonate with that more than I expected.

There’s a strange comfort in solitude, in stepping back and observing the patterns and the way I contort myself to fit expectations that were never mine to begin with.

I repeat, “It’s exhausting,” the constant negotiation of self-worth and trying to prove that I am lovable, capable, and enough. But if nothing external ever fills that space, maybe the answer isn’t in proving anything at all. Maybe it’s in standing still, in letting the discomfort settle, in facing what I’ve spent years avoiding.

Do I embrace isolation?

Thompson's perspective often included a degree of isolation, as he believed that true understanding and insight came from introspection and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.

I want to be comfortable and not afraid to be alone. In fact, I often prefer it to superficial social interactions. 

I don’t have the answer, but I have the awareness now. And that’s something.