Breaking Free from the Constant Need to Be Better

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“Enough is a decision, not a condition.” ~Unknown

The night sky above Disneyland shimmered in color as fireworks burst to life. My daughters leaned against me, sticky-fingered from melted ice cream, eyes wide with wonder. It was supposed to be the happiest place on earth.

Then Mirabel’s voice from Encanto echoed through the speakers: “I will never be good enough. Will I? No matter how hard I try.”

Something inside me broke.

Sitting cross-legged on the pavement surrounded by thousands of smiling families, I sobbed. Not a dainty, delicate tear but the kind of quiet, chest-aching cry you hope no one notices. Because I felt every word of that line to the depth of my soul. I will never be good enough. No matter how hard I try.

It wasn’t just a line from a movie; it was a mirror.

For a long time, I’d been living that sentence. Even there, amid the music and magic, my brain replayed its familiar loop: You could have done more. Planned better. Been better. I had done everything to make this trip perfect: the color-coordinated outfits, the matching Mickey ears, the surprise treats, the sparkly magic I wanted my girls to remember. But as fireworks lit up the castle, all I could see were the cracks.

If a stranger had seen me earlier that day, they would have thought we were a picture-perfect family: two happy children, a smiling mom, laughter caught in a hundred photos. But what I saw were invisible failures: the husband who stayed home so we could enjoy the trip, the work deadlines I’d missed, the credit card balance quietly growing, the school days my girls were skipping, the millions of things I could have done differently … better.

That’s been my pattern for as long as I can remember. I can turn any success into a shortcoming. I could have a beautiful day and still go to bed listing the ways I fell short.

The Job That Stole My Joy

A few months after that trip, I lost a job I hated—one that demanded everything from me and gave very little back. I worked late, missed family dinners, and convinced myself it was all temporary, that the sacrifices would make sense later.

The company bragged about “unlimited leave,” but each day off came with guilt and suspicion. I gave it everything—my time, my peace, my confidence—and when it ended, I felt hollow. I resented the job for stealing my joy, but I also blamed myself for not being able to thrive in it. I told myself I should have been tougher, smarter, better.

Even when I was free from it, I still heard its voice in my head: Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.

It’s strange how we can be both relieved and wrecked at the same time—free from something we didn’t want, yet still mourning the part of ourselves that believes we failed.

Holding Others to a Kinder Standard

The irony is, I would never hold anyone else to the standards I hold myself to.

When my daughter came home one day with a “1” on a test (our school’s version of an F) she was devastated. She cried that she was stupid, that she wasn’t good enough.

I didn’t hesitate. “Sweetheart, you were sick last week. You missed school. You did your best, and that’s all that matters. We’ll talk to your teacher and figure it out.”

I never once thought, “You should have studied harder.” I just wanted to remind her she was loved, safe, and enough.

Later that night, as I tucked her in, it hit me like a lightning bolt: I don’t talk to myself that way. If I miss a goal, make a mistake, or fall short, I don’t respond with grace. I scold, criticize, analyze, and push harder. I’d never speak to my child that way, so why do I speak to myself that way?

That realization stayed with me. It sat quietly in my chest for weeks, whispering every time I said, “I should have” or “I could have.”

The Mirror Moment

That was my real turning point—a bedtime realization whispered in the dark. If I wanted my daughter to grow up believing she was enough, I needed to show her what that looked like. Kids learn from what we model, not just what we say.

So I started asking myself a new question: What if my best really was enough?

Not perfect. Not world-changing. Just enough.

At first, I said it through gritted teeth, like an affirmation I didn’t quite believe. But over time, those words softened into something closer to truth.

Redefining “My Best”

For most of my life, “my best” was a moving target. It meant giving everything I had until I was empty… and then finding more to give. It meant equating outcome with worth: if the results weren’t amazing, the effort didn’t count.

But I’m learning that “my best” changes every day. Some days, my best is productivity and creativity. Other days, it’s showing up tired and still trying. And sometimes, my best is resting—choosing not to push when my body and heart need to heal.

Doing my best isn’t about checking every box. It’s about showing up with love and integrity, even when the outcome isn’t perfect.

It’s about whispering to myself, You did what you could today. That’s enough.

The Lessons I’m Still Learning

I wish I could say I’ve mastered this—that I never fall into the old trap of comparison or self-criticism. But self-kindness, like any form of growth, takes practice.

Here’s what helps me when I start to forget:

1. I talk to myself like I talk to my daughters.

When that voice in my head starts listing my shortcomings, I imagine saying those words to them. Instantly, my inner tone softens. I swap “You failed again” for “You tried so hard, and I’m proud of you.” It’s not about letting myself off the hook—it’s about letting myself be human.

2. I look for evidence of effort, not perfection.

Some days, my “proof” is a clean kitchen or a finished project. Other days, it’s the fact that I kept everyone fed and loved. Either way, effort counts. It all matters, even if no one else sees it.

3. I measure progress, not performance.

I remind myself that healing isn’t linear and growth isn’t graded. The goal isn’t to win every day; it’s to keep moving forward with compassion. Some seasons, forward might be inches. Others, miles. Both count.

4. I practice gratitude over guilt.

When my mind replays regrets, I pause and thank myself for trying. Gratitude and guilt can’t share the same breath, and choosing gratitude quiets the noise.

And on the hardest days, I add a fifth quiet mantra: You are learning. You are allowed to be learning.

Choosing Enough

Some days, I still catch myself thinking about the job I lost or the trip I could have planned better or the dinner I burned because I was distracted helping with homework. I still hear the whisper: Not enough.

But then I look at my daughters—at their laughter, their curiosity, their unconditional love—and I remember what’s true: they don’t need a perfect mom. They need a present one.

They need to see a woman who fails sometimes and keeps going. A woman who apologizes, laughs at herself, and tries again. A woman who believes that doing her best—even when it’s messy, even when it’s not much—is enough.

Because enough isn’t a finish line. It’s a choice we make, every day, to love ourselves as we are and trust that effort counts for something.

The next time Mirabel’s voice echoes through those fireworks, maybe I’ll hear it differently. I hope I’ll smile. I hope I’ll squeeze my girls’ hands and think, “We are good enough. We always were. And tomorrow, we’ll keep trying.”

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what “enough” really means.