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When Olivia was very young, she was diagnosed with a chromosomal condition that meant her path would likely look different.
Different from mine. Different from her dad's. Different from her siblings'. Looking back, I think part of me knew before the official diagnosis. Maybe not intellectually—but somewhere in that quieter place where mothers sometimes know things before they can explain them. Accepting that her life might look different was one thing. Accepting that her education would too was another. As junior high approached, Olivia began showing signs of what I believe was anxiety. So was I. Junior high is hard under ordinary circumstances. Add academic differences, social uncertainty, and the invisible fear every parent carries of watching their child struggle, and it becomes something else entirely. One day she asked me, "Mom, can you homeschool me?" And I considered it. Not because I doubted her. Because I wanted to protect her. But I've learned that protection and preparation are not always the same thing. So the first day came. She was anxious. I was anxious. I tried to hand her my strength instead of my fear. She survived the first day. And so did I. Recently, I sat in an IEP meeting with her teachers. I listened as they described my daughter. Not with pity. Not with lowered expectations. With admiration. They talked about how hard she works. How she keeps trying. How she pushes through emotional and academic challenges. How she uses her strengths. How she keeps reaching. And sitting there, I realized something. Sometimes the limits we fear most are the ones we begin writing before the story is finished. Because Olivia keeps teaching me something. Possibility doesn't always look like ease. Sometimes it looks like effort. Sometimes it looks like courage. Sometimes it looks like showing up while you're still afraid. And somewhere in all of that, I hear her question again. "What if I want to be anything?" Maybe that's not just her question. Maybe it's ours. Because somewhere along the way, many of us quietly stop believing we're allowed to become something we haven't been yet. What if possibility wasn't reserved for the naturally gifted, the fearless, or the people with the easiest path? What if possibility belonged to the ones who simply kept and keep showing up? What if I want to be anything?
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At one point during my job search, I wanted to stop completely.
I had probably applied to 45 positions by then. I had rewritten my resume over and over. Interviewed multiple times. Adjusted wording. Changed approaches. Tried to improve every part of the process. And honestly, it felt like nothing was giving. I remember sitting at my desk thinking: Maybe I should just stop. And for a moment, the thought actually felt peaceful. No more applications. No more interviews. No more overthinking. Just stillness. But then I realized something. When I stopped moving, everything became still—but the clarity stopped too. Because as exhausting as the process was, something important had been happening inside it. Every application was helping me narrow direction. Every interview was helping me understand fit. Every adjustment was teaching me something about how I communicated, what environments felt right, and what kind of work I actually wanted to move toward. I wasn’t just trying to get hired. I was also figuring out where I fit. And the more I kept going, the clearer things became. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough to keep moving forward. I think sometimes we think clarity is supposed to come first. Like we’re supposed to already know exactly where we’re headed before we begin. But I don’t really think that’s how it works anymore. At least not for me. I think movement creates clarity. And sometimes the only way to figure out what fits is to keep the gears moving long enough for things to slowly start making sense. I realized recently that “good enough” and “giving up” are not the same thing.
For a long time, I thought everything had to be perfectly aligned before I could move forward. Perfect timing. Perfect wording. Perfect preparation. Perfect version of myself. But the harder I tried to be perfect, the harder everything became. Because perfection creates pressure. And pressure makes it difficult to think clearly, speak naturally, or trust yourself. The thought came back to me during a conversation at the gym with a girl who’s getting married soon. We started talking about weddings, planning, timelines—all the moving pieces that have to come together at once. She said that at first, she wanted everything perfect. Then eventually she shifted into: “Okay… maybe it just needs to be doable.” Then: “Maybe I can adjust here and there.” And finally she said: “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be good enough.” That phrase stayed with me. Not because it sounded like settling. Because it sounded like freedom. I think a lot of people misunderstand the phrase “good enough.” They hear: lower standards stop caring be mediocre But that’s not what this was. This was about removing pressure. And honestly, I realized I’ve done the same thing in my own life—especially during my job search. The harder I tried to perform a flawless version of myself, the more unnatural everything felt. What finally started changing things wasn’t becoming perfect. It was realizing I didn’t need to be perfect to move forward. I just needed to show up: prepared present willing to engage And that was enough. Not careless. Not lazy. Not settling. Just real. I’m starting to think there’s a difference between structure and rigidity. Structure helps you move forward. Rigidity makes you afraid to move unless everything is perfectly aligned first. And maybe that’s why some things feel so heavy for so long. Not because we’re incapable. But because we think we need certainty, perfection, or complete confidence before we begin. I don’t think “good enough” means lowering the standard. I think sometimes it means removing the pressure that’s preventing movement in the first place. And sometimes, that changes everything. |