What if I wrote and wrote and only eight people ever read it?
My experiences were merely a speck and unrecognizable mixed with the entire collection?
The blessings I have now will one day be longings?
My body is neither fat nor thin nor muscular nor weak?
All my mistakes were intentional?
My faults will not drive the ones I love away, rather they a part of the entire package that is me?
I don’t know all the answers?
I lean into uncertainty?
I let myself be in the moment, free of judgement about what is present and what isn’t?
I am sometimes not the kind, generous person that I strive to be?
Someone else’s pain, anger or sharp swearword in my direction is not about me?
I am a contradiction?
What if I accept all of that as enough? Not enough as in settling, but enough as in all the beauty I could have ever hoped for in my little life. What if I am exactly who I am supposed to be, with faults and misdirection?