I Keep Forgetting I’m Enough

That same tired lie… and how you still fall for it sometimes.
It doesn’t yell.
It seeps.

The lie doesn’t come crashing through the door with accusations and insults.
It slides in quietly… like a syringe of black ink, pressing into your veins.
A slow, creeping corruption that doesn’t make you collapse ... it just makes you doubt.
Systematically. Strategically.

It starts small: a question.
“Can I really do this?”
Then it expands:
“Do I even know what I’m doing?”
And by the time it’s done, it’s shouting silently inside your skull:
“You’re going to mess this up. And when you do, they’ll finally see it ... you’re a fraud.”

Every time I think I’ve kicked it, it finds a new way in.

It doesn’t matter how much I’ve done.
How many times I’ve shown up, figured it out, led the room, held the line.
That voice doesn’t care.
It just wants me to question if I belong.

I feel it most in my work.
Every day, I walk into a school knowing I’m a leader.
Knowing I can inspire. Knowing I connect with the kids. That I care. That I try.
But then the whisper returns…
“Is that enough?”

Not enough compared to what the role used to be.
Not enough compared to what people expect it to look like.
Not enough because I haven’t logged 30, 40 years in the system.

I carry that tension every day ... between what people see the role as in legacy terms… and what I hope the role could be in visionary ones.

It’s like we’ve evolved.
Teachers aren’t just teachers anymore. They’re mentors. Facilitators.
So maybe principals shouldn’t just be gatekeepers and rule enforcers.
Maybe they can be listeners. Disruptors. Protectors of imagination.
But every time I lean into that, I wonder…
Am I actually part of the evolution?
Or am I just telling myself that… to make up for not having the years behind me?

That’s the black ink talking.
That’s the lie I keep falling for.

And then ... every now and then ... someone says something that cuts through all of it.

“Why are you here? You should be out there doing your thing.”

They mean it as a compliment. And I get it.
But part of me always wants to respond:
Maybe this IS my thing.
Maybe I’m not here because I’ve settled…
Maybe I’m here because this is where I’m supposed to be.
Even if the mold doesn’t fit.
Even if the title feels too big some days and too small on others.
Even if I still forget I’m enough.

Because maybe it’s not about silencing the voice forever.
Maybe it’s just about recognizing it sooner.
Sitting with it.
And choosing to walk forward anyway.