You Are Enough
Over the course of my 67 years, I’ve poured so much of my life energy into the pursuit of love—trying, in every way I knew how, to earn it.
As a boy, I was the quintessential “good kid.” I became an Eagle Scout, my sash lined with merit badges like medals of honor, proof that I was trying hard to be the kind of son who made his parents proud. I studied diligently, got into the “right” schools, and sat dutifully in a church pew every Sunday morning—unless I was running a fever and couldn’t get out of bed. I played by the rules. I did what was expected. And I took great pride in being the boy who never caused trouble.
“You’re such a good boy, Tim,” my mom and dad would say, their voices filled with affection and hope. “Just apply yourself, and there’s no limit to what you can achieve.” At the time, I clung to those words like a lifeline. I believed them. I needed to believe them. But over time, I started to notice the hidden cost of such praise—the way it implied that love might be conditional. That being loved meant always performing. That the minute I made a mistake or slipped up, I might lose that approval.
Praise, as kind as it often sounds, can carry a shadow. And I began to understand that beneath every “good boy” was the fear of being seen as bad, of disappointing the very people I loved most.
So I played it safe.
I put my childhood dream of becoming an artist on a high shelf and left it there to gather dust. Instead, I went to divinity school. It was a respectable path. Noble. Sacred. It felt like something God—and my parents—could get behind. I was ordained as a Christian minister and spent the next few decades trying to embody that calling. And while there was great beauty in that journey—the joy of serving others, the sacred rituals, the moments of connection—there was also a quiet, aching loss that I didn’t fully recognize at the time. Somewhere along the way, amidst all the roles and responsibilities, I lost touch with something deeper… something older than creeds and doctrines, older even than words. A kind of primordial, ancient wisdom that once whispered to me in childhood moments of wonder—in the rustle of leaves, the silence of snowfall, the way light streamed through the kitchen window or flickered across the surface of a lake.
I’ve made my share of mistakes. Some of them were painful — wounding me, and at times, those I love. And all the while, I was haunted by that old inner voice: “Don’t mess up. Don’t let them down. Be good.”
But slowly—sometimes painfully slowly—I’ve begun to learn something far more liberating than anything I was ever taught in Sunday School: I am not “good” or “bad.” I am simply… me. Tim. A human being, beloved not because I followed the rules or made the grade, but simply because I exist. That’s enough.
I think we all know how blame can wound us. But I’ve come to see that praise—especially when it’s tethered to performance—can hurt just as much. It teaches us to measure our worth by how well we meet others’ expectations. It teaches us to stay small. To play it safe. To avoid risk. To hide the messy parts of ourselves for fear of losing affection.
These days, I find myself less interested in being “good” and far more interested in being real.
I no longer want to live under the weight of evaluation—whether it’s from others or my own inner critic. I don’t need gold stars, titles, applause, or divine approval. What I crave now is presence. Honesty. Wholeness. I want to show up fully, unguarded, even when I’m uncertain or afraid. I want to risk being seen—truly seen—without the armor of perfection.
At the end of the day, I try to let go of it all: the striving, the self-judgment, the stories I once believed about who I had to be. I rest in the quiet. I breathe into mystery. And I allow myself to welcome the grace of this moment—not because I’ve earned it, but because life is a gift. A breathtaking, fleeting, fragile gift.
And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us:
To shed the labels and the roles.
To take the risk of being real.
To breathe each breath as if it were sacred.
To remember—gently, fiercely, imperfectly—that we are already enough.
Already loved.
Already home.
