Dying to be in the middle, wasting away in the in-between
Nobody prepares you for “good enough.” It’s either doomsday prepping, or preparing your speech for the Oscars. What’s the point in wasting time fantasizing about the in-between? Growing up, I was given the singular message to succeed; at what? I have no idea. To what end? Still, zero idea. I just knew I was meant to go to school, get good grades, go to University and succeed (I don’t blame my parents, and I never will; they’re incredibly supportive and have only ever wanted what’s best for me). We very clearly define the opposite of success — It’s failure. Failure means you live on the street, failure means you lack resources, failure means you’ve let someone down. But what about success? How do I gauge whether or not I am successful? Is it home ownership? A degree? A marriage? Children? In the absence of a concrete definition of success, I’ve since decided that I’m not. And what’s not failure but not quite success? “Good enough.”
As it turns out, good enough is actually somehow worse than failure; it’s the crushing weight of mediocrity, of a life half-lived. Good enough is a 30 or 40-year trudge to the inevitable, coloured in by indiscriminate and unmemorable shades of greige and beige. I’m floating through life, but not in the whimsical sense, where I get the pleasure of a great life on autopilot. No, this floating is like a very old curtain, flapping listlessly in the kitchen window of a very old apartment, with a fruit motif that was “all the rage” in the 90s, but has since fallen out of favor. The kitchen curtain is at the whim of the wind, unthought of, save for its utility. Nobody would even realize it was gone if the wind took it. That kind of floating.
I can’t even blame it on trauma or a poor childhood. My childhood was pretty good, all things considered. I can’t even blame it on the systemic forces of racism that often keep Black people in poverty and in lack. So much so that we develop a mindfulness characterized by the fear of scarcity. I can’t even pull that card. I was born into a middle-class family. My parents and grandparents, really most of my family, were/are homeowners; my grandparents even had a vacation home when I was a kid. Most of them are college-educated and have careers. Despite my being born a fat, Black woman, I’ve been given somewhat of a boost in life. A good starting point, if you will. And yet I have still managed to “claw” my way to the middle; a generational lateral move, if anything. So add guilt to that numbing fear of mediocrity, because I really should have been able to achieve more.
As capitalism, white supremacy, and a complete disregard for our climate close in on us (and not to be a fatalist, I know, there's always time to make change for the better …or worse), I’m reflecting on the things I could have done differently up to this point. Taken my education more seriously, gone to the gym more, tried a bit harder to find a suitable partner. But I didn’t. I often joke with friends that I am the “Queen of Failing Up,” which is really a misnomer because I’m actually the “Queen of Succeeding Just Enough.” I do just enough to pay the bills with a bit extra, just enough to keep my apartment clean [enough], just enough to appear like a normal, somewhat functioning millennial, who doom scrolls Twitter too often and still hasn’t figured out a budget, but I’m making it work. I even once bought a house. But that wasn’t even done with some grand dream or plan in mind. I logged in one day, saw I could get pre-approved, and so I bought a house. Thanks to a particularly favourable housing market, I made a five-figure profit when I sold that house, comforted by the fact that I made the decision to sell to people rather than a holding company. I went and got an MBA — because why not? I applied and got in, so I did it. So dispassionate was I about my advanced degree that I wasn't sad when Covid-19 canceled our in-person commencement ceremonies. In fact, I haven’t been back to the campus since I completed my last final. I’ve never seen either of my degrees in person; they currently sit at my parent’s house, where I hope their presence masks their daughter’s complete inability to achieve anything of substance in this world.
The real trap of “good enough” is that deep down inside, you know that good enough…well, it isn’t enough. You’re failing, maybe not in the traditional sense, but it’s still failure. But you don’t understand why or how. Or how to fix it. Because things are good enough, it’s easy to brush aside the loneliness, the fear, the sadness, the grief. Good enough is a mask; a useful defense in the face of a lifetime that somehow stretches on forever but doesn't last nearly long enough to be meaningful. The half-hearted chase for contentment seems like motivation enough, so you buy some crystals, get really deep into astrology, or “inner child healing.” What if your inner child doesn’t want to be healed? I tried. She’s stubborn, well, really, she’s MIA. I turned to my ancestors, but I’ve been begging my late grandmother to show up for six years, and I’ve been met with radio silence. I assume that by some error on my part, my ancestors simply aren’t interested in all of this guidance they’re so famous for. Not in my case, anyhow. My deepest fear is that there is no fix. There is no change. That whatever great being set all this in motion meant for me to live a life of “good enough.”
Someone I greatly respect recently told me: “there’s no way to truly be contented in this lifetime,” and they’re absolutely right. I’ve looked for it; I’ve tried to buy it, write it, hop on a plane, and fly to it. I thought it came with a better-paying job, the caress of a lover, or the temporary serotonin released by a good meal or a great haircut. It didn’t. It maybe never will, so how can I learn to survive in the “good enough?”
Stay tuned.