That’s what Ally the teacher said today in 7am Hatha class. And it struck me because I never feel good enough. Which is weird (and sad) because I am someone who (I think) has high self-esteem and a fair amount of perspective…and yet my body doesn’t feel good enough. I don’t think I’ll ever adjust to the post-pregnancy changes that carrying to giant 8+lb bebehs wrought on me. And I’m not talking about how my body looks (okay, maybe my stomach, but only a little), but rather how my body functions. It’s just not the same, and as much as I love my kids, I have trouble “celebrating” the fact that I spend a lot of time and money seeking the help of specialists, or spending my “free” time in the evening doing extra stretches and exercises and internet searches to try to help my situation.
And while I’m confessing about stuff, my mothering often doesn’t feel good enough either. Are the kids being exposed to all the things that will make them happy and successful? Am I a neurotic fool to even worry about that? Are they eating well enough? Are they where they should be in their development? Should I be giving/doing/organizing/creating more?
Plus I wonder about being a good enough wife. Like, am I attentive enough? Do we have sex enough? Is my house clean enough? And (I can’t believe this thought actually exists in my head, but it does) are my menu options varied enough? No, really. I actually worry about that. I went to school for nearly 20 years (from preschool to grad school), and I like to think about things like semiotics and feminism—and yet I worry almost daily about whether or not we’ve eaten chicken too often lately, and what new fun lunchtime options my toddler will eat without needing ketchup poured on it.
I also wonder about whether I’m being me enough. About getting enough time to write, think, plan and progress toward my own personal goals.
So when Ally got us out of savasana, back up to easy pose on our foam blocks, and had us think about being good enough as we are, I really tried. And I chanted along—feeling hokey as hell—saying, “I am. I am. I am.”
And for the rest of the day, I’m going to try to remember that I am.