Still Waiting to Be Enough
and the world already has a list for me.
A man is supposed to be this,
supposed to have that,
supposed to stand taller, earn more,
own more, be more.
And I sit there
with sleep still in my eyes
wondering if I missed the day
they handed out the blueprint.
Because I try.
Every day, I try.
Not the kind of try that gets applause,
not the kind that turns heads,
just the quiet kind
that doesn’t break the surface.
The kind nobody sees.
They say men are providers.
But what do you call a man
who’s still building the table
with splinters in his hands?
They say men shouldn’t live like this,
shouldn’t want things like that,
shouldn’t spend time escaping into games,
shouldn’t fall short of a number
someone else decided matters.
Height. Money. Status. Space.
Like worth can be measured
in inches and paychecks
and square footage.
And I wonder—
if I ever reach those peaks,
those polished, distant pinnacles,
will they finally look at me
and say,
there he is.
Or will I just be another man
standing on a mountain
that was never mine to climb?
Because I’ve been left.
Friends that faded
like they were never real to begin with.
Voices that used to call my name
now silent
like I never had one.
Women who spoke in futures
like they were promises
just… gone.
Jobs that dropped me
like I was excess weight
they didn’t feel like carrying anymore.
And after a while, you start to ask—
where the hell is the place
that keeps you?
Where is the space
that doesn’t make you earn
your right to exist
every single day?
Sometimes I feel invisible.
Not rejected.
Worse.
Like I’m standing in the middle of everything
and somehow still not in it.
Like I’m there—
but not seen.
Like I’m speaking—
but not heard.
Like I’m living—
but not… chosen.
And yeah,
I want things.
A place that’s mine.
A life that feels stable.
A moment in the grocery store
where I don’t have to do math
like survival depends on it.
I want to move through life
without feeling like
I’m always one step behind
a version of myself
that everyone else expects.
But life doesn’t care about want.
You can wake up, try, push, bleed effort
into every corner of your day—
and still end up
exactly where you started.
So I sit with it.
This quiet, gnawing question.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just there.
Always there.
Am I enough?
Or am I just
what’s left
when enough never shows up?
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