top of page
  • Writer's pictureShamari

You aren't enough.

You don’t think you’re enough. At least that’s what I get when you feel the need to constantly remind me that you completed your degree at Harvard. It’s because you aren’t enough. You need that degree to give you some sense of value. You need Harvard. It’s kind of like when you spend all day talking about your house on the hill, neglecting the fact that your house, just like you, is empty. Completely devoid of love. That house isn’t enough. And neither are you. Artwork from all over the world, the most expensive décor, all the glitz and glam that money can buy, but you don’t think you’re enough. Why must you keep me reminding me of your zip code? Those numbers are just that…numbers. Numbers. Like the number of IG followers you boast. They’re just numbers. They won’t make you enough. Just like that degree is not a representation of your intellect. Just as that house is not a marker of happiness.

I know that I’m dope because I’m dope. Not because of my education. Not because of my physical appearance. Not because of my income. Where I live. I’m amazing because I’m amazing. And it has nothing to do with material things, external forces, or shit that’s temporary or doesn’t matter. I’m dope because I’m dope. My life matters because it matters. I’m enough.

I’m smart because I’m smart. Because I’m curious. Not because of my degrees. Not because of where I attended school. All that shit is fake. Yea, university rankings may have something to do with social capital and opportunity, but they have nothing to do with intellect. I’m a writer not because of the words I use, but because I like writing. I’m enough. And so is everything I do. Everything I think. And everything I am. And the crazy thing is that you're enough, too. You just can't see it because you've been blinded by societal expectations.

28 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

I was sleep the first time it happened. I was sleep every time it happened. Sleep, I was told, was restorative. Closing my eyes would allow my body to rest. My mind could stop wandering. I could be in

Imagine this. It’s Sunday. Your favorite show comes on every Sunday evening. You’ve cleared your schedule. You got your iced cold sweet tea in hand. The brownies are almost done. You’ve already cooked

A letter to my 10-year old self (click above for audio version) Dear Black boy dreaming, I know that you feel the love of the Black women close to you. They pour it into you daily. Be present with it.

bottom of page