Maybe, Finally… I’m Good Enough

Sometimes I get this urge.

The kind that wells up in your throat and pushes at your chest. The urge to say it out loud—not for validation, not for pity, but because silence has become too heavy to carry.

I’ve gone through things I never fully spoke about.
Things that shaped me.
Things some people might dismiss or call “not that deep.”
But trauma isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet patterns repeating in your nervous system.

I grew up in Africa. Then I moved to Europe. Then I moved again—within Europe. With every move came another set of rules, bureaucracy, another language to decode, another version of myself I had to build just to survive.

I didn’t just have to adapt—I had to perform.

And all while navigating dyslexia and, recently, the reality of having ADHD.

It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be fluent in a language when you speak, but to freeze like an 8-year-old the moment you’re asked to write it. To feel the shame of wanting to contribute but being held back by spelling or formatting. To know the content, to lead with brilliance and yet fumble on the “simple” things others take for granted.

To be honest, I’ve stopped trying to explain. Because what I’ve realized is:
This isn’t about my intelligence. It’s about the systems that weren’t built for minds like mine.

People don’t talk enough about cultural shock as a mental health trigger.
They don’t talk about how a decade of integration still doesn’t undo the feeling of being an imposter.
They don’t talk about how, even when you “succeed,” a part of you wonders when you’ll be found out, caught off guard, undone by the thing you couldn’t mask in time.

I live in a place where certification is currency.
Where if you don’t have “proof,” you’re overlooked.
And for years, I overcompensated—maxing out my energy, my capacity, my smile so no one would notice the places where I didn’t feel enough.

But here’s the thing: pretending you’re okay for too long is what makes you not okay.

My breakdown didn’t come how I expected. It didn’t arrive with fireworks.
It came as exhaustion.
As a voice that stopped working. As joy that stopped arriving. As tears I couldn’t explain.

And that’s when I walked into therapy.
Not because I had it all figured out.
But because I didn’t.
And because I finally understood that I owed my healing to the ones who love me—and to myself.

I come from cultures where mental health was hidden.
Where a child’s struggle was a parent’s shame.
Where the mother carried the blame when a child wasn’t “smart enough.”

I grew up internalizing that. Until I couldn’t anymore.

So, I went digging.
Deep into the roots.
Unlearning. Undoing. Understanding.
And for the first time, I started asking:

What happened to me?
And what did that do to my soul?
What do I need now to truly feel whole?

So here I am. At this stage in life where I get to define what it means to be 'me' on my terms.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to believe...

Maybe I don’t have to prove anything anymore.
Maybe I don’t need to keep hiding my mess.
Maybe, finally… I’m good enough.

🌺 To anyone who’s ever carried shame that wasn’t yours, who’s ever been brilliant but buried under systems not made for you—you’re not broken. You’re brave. And you are more than enough.

With love,
Elizabeth Iember

✨ Reflective Journaling Prompt:

1. What parts of yourself have you hidden to avoid judgment?

2. What survival skills can now become healing tools?

3. What might it feel like to believe—even just for today—that you are already enough?