Who I’m Supposed to Be

There’s nothing like being a full-grown, card-carrying adult fumbling with Elmer’s glue and too-small kids’ scissors. An hour, maybe even two spilled into crafting. Nothing fancy—just inch-wide, eight-inch-long strips of red, white, and green paper glued together to create a Christmas daisy chain. Something about gluing my fingers to the paper (and occasionally to each other) and then having to carefully pry them apart without ruining the still-drying chain ended up being my favorite part.

Our Christmas decorations are limited, but that colorful chain draped across the living room entry is one I’ll hold onto for next year. In fact, I’m thinking of making it a tradition—adding a new chain each year. Who knows? Eventually, we might find ourselves at Buddy the Elf’s level of decorating.

While crafting, my mind wandered through a jumble of thoughts, none of them feeling particularly worthy of the page: overworked delivery drivers rushing through the season, the landscaper who hasn’t picked up his check in a month, or a teenager I know who’s navigating that awkward place between dependence on parents and the pull toward independence.

It made me reflect on how I used to picture my life—so neatly stacked, like a well-edited movie trailer. College. Marriage. A house. Kids. That simple, polished snapshot replayed in my mind throughout my 20s. But as my life unfolded differently than that vision, I started to feel like I was doing something wrong.

I wrestled with that feeling. I felt frustrated, inadequate, even ashamed at times. The meaning I found in my actual life—through traveling, studying, and living those experiences that were deeply important to me—never seemed to measure up to the idea of what I should be doing.

And that’s why, even now, I cringe when people ask,” or “Are you planning for more kids?” Those questions, however well-meaning, always felt loaded to me, like they carried an invisible bar I was supposed to reach.

People would tell me having kids would fulfill my womanly nature, or that marriage was the pinnacle of life. And while those things have brought joy and meaning to my world, the idea that they were the ultimate goal I was searching for just isn’t true.

What I really wanted—what I still want—is to be accepted for me. Not because I fit into a box someone else created, or because of what I’ve done or accomplished. Just me.

It’s strange how much of our lives can be spent striving for someone else’s version of “enough.” Little by little, I’ve been peeling back those layers and discovering my version of Enough.

For me, it’s less about milestones and more about moments. It’s the quiet satisfaction of an hour crafting something simple and imperfect. It’s the freedom to say, “This is who I am,” without apology. And maybe most importantly, it’s the courage to release the weight of expectations I never asked to carry in the first place.

Until next time. Love, Jaclynn