How Will I Know I Am Enough?

Painting through self-doubt, inherited shame, and the journey to love myself

Every painting is an opportunity for understanding and healing. And this painting became a battleground for one of the most persistent voices in my head: Who am I, and will I ever be enough?

Since I can remember, I have never possessed a strong sense of who I am, what I want, what I am capable of, or how I am seen by others. I am not a narcissist who thinks extremely highly of myself, but rather the complete opposite. Nearly every introspective thought about myself tends to skew in negative and incorrect directions.

I realized this in my twenties and set out to do something about it. I began therapy and have been in and out of it for over thirty years. Although I have answered about 70% of them, the remaining questions about who I really am are proving to be the most difficult. I am not sure I can work out the final 30% without taking a leap of faith:

I am enough, I am told.
I am enough, I guess.
I am enough, I think.
I am enough, I feel.
I am enough, period.

There, I said it, but I will admit, I don’t quite mean it yet.

When I set out to paint my latest piece (I will reveal its title later), I was deep in the oh-so-familiar throes of self-discovery, attempting to get closer to the missing aspects of who I am. I was feeling frustration and anger, but also a bit of joy and excitement. Feeling polar opposites is normal for me, so I moved forward to start the painting, knowing the emotional landscape would work itself out on the canvas.

Bodi had been playing with a teal and red tennis ball the days prior to my painting this piece, and since I love that color combination, I knew I had to see those colors on my canvas. I boldly started with the red, which scared me a bit since it’s such a bold and commanding color, but as soon as it hit the canvas, all fear drained from me. I loved it!

The first layers I put down are always emotionally driven and intense. Painting the layers of color involves not only my mind and emotions, but also the physicality of using my arms in a full range of motion, my hands and fingers, and my hips and legs supporting the drama-filled process. It’s my way of expressing what has been bottled up for a while, and the process also clarifies my direction. It’s cathartic, refreshing, and very necessary if I want to maintain any stability in my mental health.

There is strategy in my stroke placement, but also capriciousness. I want to be unencumbered by thought, but I also want my creation to flow and speak to the viewer. Smooth is not something I crave, so the scratching and scraping of the paint after I have added it to the canvas creates a visceral release as well as visual interest and tactile texture.

The painting I considered a “Work In Progress" (WIP), or was it done?

When I was done, I felt a great sense of pride and accomplishment. Yet I was also conflicted. I loved it as it was, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I had to do more, and only then would the painting be “finished.”

It was not enough.
I was not enough.

I stared at the painting for a long time, hoping to “feel” it was done, or it needed more. I just couldn't land in either camp, and instead, I was in the middle, unsure of any direction. I find myself in this place more often than I would like.

There’s always more, right? Better, faster, prettier, smarter…

I long to be connected to my true self in a way that the question of “more” is faint and only seldom answered.

I want to be, and be happy just being.

But, I feel, in order to achieve such a goal, I must not only know who I am, but I must also accept and love who I am. Only then will questioning and obsessive searching relent.

I was born to one woman and raised by another.

The former did know me, and the latter did not try.

The one who carried me would have loved me, and the one who didn’t, couldn't love me.

A childhood lost to uncertainty, apologizing, and fear. The feeling of not belonging, not being wanted, and not being loved created the void I have been seeking to fill.

The trauma was so long ago, yet I still reel from it. The pain is so far in the past, yet it still stings. My childhood trauma remains alive not only in my thoughts but also in my body. And that is why it remains. It has become part of who I am, but not the entire explanation of who I am.

I can’t say I’m trying to find myself again, as I was never acquainted with the real me. I am on a path of discovery, hoping to discover someone I never knew, scared I may not like what I find.

Who would I be if I were truly loved by those who raised me?

Who would I be if those who raised me allowed me to express my feelings and thoughts without ridicule and fear of reprisal?

Who would I be if those who raised me instead supported, encouraged, and loved me instead of making me a participant in their life of misery?

The answers are always in the paint.

Am I enough?

A quick art journal session without much thought involved. I think I want to feel enough since I filled the glass to the tippy top.

I intended to lay down the emotional layers and then return in a day or so to finish the final layers of mark-making and whimsy. However, it was a full week before I could return to the painting, and I struggled to find a direction when I stood in front of it, ready to proceed.

Competing thoughts in my head were engulfed in a fierce battle. “It’s done, move on,” said one voice. “No, no, it can’t be done, there must be more added,” said the other voice. The back and forth lasted longer than I had hoped, and I knew I had to try to pull myself out of what had become a very stressful moment, one that could have ended in an emotional meltdown.

I picked up a black grease pencil and made some marks. Then I found the white grease pencil in my hand and made more marks. Then, four colors of oil pastels made an appearance as I added more marks to the canvas. With every mark I made, I cringed inside and convinced myself that I was destroying my painting. It was both exciting and excruciating at the same time, as if part of me was enjoying torturing myself. But the other part of me was in a shame-filled spiral. Yet, at the same time, I felt a glimmer of freedom as I pushed forward into the fear.

But then, I stood back and thought, “Geez, I fucked it up!”

Real Victoria: Did I, really? Nah, it’s okay.

Imaginary Victoria: No, yeah, you fucked it up. It’s too chaotic now. The marks are not distinctive enough. It looks like you could not make a decision. You choked.

Real Victoria (being very defensive): Whatever. Who cares. I suck at this art thing.

I am not enough.

I am not going to lie. There are many times when I have to seriously ask myself why I'm doing this art thing, especially when I think thoughts like that.

But I always keep going, no matter how painful it becomes.

And, that’s the point, I guess.

The paint and write process gives me the opportunity and the space to confront the things that cause me pain, frustration, and sadness. A place to hopefully find both myself and my enoughness.

I used to think that healing was a destination, but now I know it's a journey that never ends. Well, not until I am dead, that is. But for all I know, it could continue in the afterlife or whatever awaits me in death.

Maybe I am enough? Maybe.

I typically have a title for my painting before I finish it, and this time was no different. While starting my mark-making, a childhood memory jumped into my head. I don’t remember why, but when I was a child, the Witch would often say to me…

“You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

When the Witch said this to me, she intended to shame me for something she thought I had done wrong. It was a very effective tool of shame for the Witch, as I remember feeling ashamed and wrong for most of my childhood.

When I was adding the marks, I could hear the Witch in my head, saying those exact words, and I knew I had found my title. And for a little while, I fell in line and felt the shame, and that made me very sad. But, then, I didn’t. I rebounded and was okay.

Yes, I verbally abused myself.
But then I set the record straight.

I stand by my artistic choices.
I love my painting because it was created by me.
And, I love myself, just a little more every day.

Am I enough? Maybe, soon, but not today.

Thanks for joining me on this adventure!

I lost myself trying to be what others wanted. Now, I create to find who I really am.

Perpetual Conflict is my illustrated memoir—a raw, unflinching journey through shame, grief, and self-abandonment. I picked up a paintbrush in the wreckage of my life, not to make art, but to survive. Each painting in this book is a snapshot of emotional truth—rage, release, hope, reclamation—followed by the words that rose from the canvas when I finally stopped hiding. It’s chaotic, cathartic, and real. It’s how I found pieces of myself in color, texture, and honesty. If you’ve ever lost your way—or your voice—this book might help you find a little of both.