I am enough.

Every laugh at my attempts to speak Vietnamese. Every look of pure disappointment. Every time I was told, one way or another, that “I should have known better” has left an indelible mark.

The pressure of living up to my mom’s expectations. Wanting her to know her sacrifices were not made in vain.

Moving through life feeling like I cannot be wrong or make a mistake because it is never just an oversight. It is because I am not smart enough. Strong enough. Resilient enough. I am simply not enough. Not enough to be chosen, to grow for, to fight for.

I ran, hoping to gather enough evidence to disprove the fact that my inner self feels not enough.

Even as my mom looks me in the eyes and tells me, “You are enough,” my soul does not feel that way. So it scrounges for more data to prove that I am.

Morphing in every social situation because being me is not enough. Bending over backwards, not only because I care, but because some part of me is still trying to prove that I am of use. That...

I am enough.