You might be good, but you will never be good enough.

Not because you don’t try, not because you haven’t worked hard, not because you lack the skills or demeanor or whatever it is that makes a person any good, but simply because you assumed wrong and you know differently now—the universe does not care if you are good any more than it cares how a frog is a frog. The universe, like most people, does not think about you at all.

You think this should be an easier fact to embrace, after all those years you spent trying to be good enough for everyone else and good at things, and all you really had to do was simply be. Except, of course, none of this makes you feel any less alone.

You stand in front of the mirror, brush your hair before bed, hold the fine strands of it away from your face, put it in a ponytail. You remember the man who loved you best like this, when you were done trying to be good. This hair makes you feel vulnerable, swept away from your face, the strands always escaping, always having to be tucked back in to the black elastic band keeping them caught. When someone else comments on your hair one evening as you stand in a doorway, it is this that you will wonder, if what he saw all those times when he called it beautiful was not the hair really, but the way you’d finally let yourself be open.

And what you want, there in front of the mirror, is not to be good for the universe, but enough for just one person, for whom you might also be good for, one who might stay for good.

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