Salt.

Salt. Salt is salty, and salt is sad. My tears taste of it, bitter as they roll down my cheeks, tracing lines that vanish on my lips. It lingers, faintly burning, a reminder of something deeper—a sadness I can’t seem to shake. I wonder why I taste it so often, why this salt comes back again and again, a constant guest in my life. But maybe I already know.

Maybe it’s because they once told me that my mother sacrificed her dreams because of me. The weight of that statement sits heavy in my chest, leaving me feeling like I am nothing more than the shadow of someone else’s abandoned hope. Every time I think of it, guilt coils tighter, reminding me that my very existence may have cost someone else their happiness. I didn’t ask to be here, but here I am, carrying this burden, wondering if it would have been better for everyone if I hadn’t been.

I’m told I should be grateful—grateful for a life that looks whole from the outside, but feels hollow from within. It’s strange, this pressure to feel thankful for something that often feels more like a sentence than a gift. I carry this strange mix of gratitude and blame, never knowing where one begins and the other ends. Sometimes, I wonder if anyone else feels this way. If others walk around with the weight of blame that doesn’t belong to them, placed upon their shoulders by people who love them, or say they do.

And then there’s that echo, that relentless whisper: “never enough.” It’s a phrase that follows me, sits with me, grows roots in my mind and reminds me, in its quiet, insistent way, that no matter what I do, I will fall short. I wonder how I came to believe it so deeply, how it became a part of me—this idea that I am fundamentally lacking. It’s like a shadow that I can’t outrun, always there, ready to remind me of every flaw, every shortcoming.

When I think of everything they’ve done for me—the sacrifices, the efforts, the countless ways they’ve held me up—I feel like my own efforts are so small in comparison. I remember birthdays, supposed celebrations of life, but for me, they were just reminders of a life that felt uncelebrated. On days meant for joy, I cried alone, feeling invisible, unworthy. Sometimes, I would sit in the corner of a room, watching everyone else go on with their lives, knowing I was there but feeling like a ghost, present but unseen.

Even photographs felt like they weren’t meant for me, like I was somehow unworthy of being captured in a moment of happiness. I’d see others in pictures, smiling, loved, remembered—and I’d wonder why that never seemed to be my place. It’s a strange thing, to feel unworthy of a memory, to feel like you aren’t even worth the space you occupy. It’s a feeling that settles into your bones, that becomes a part of you no matter how much you wish it wouldn’t.

I ask myself why. Why do I feel this way? Why does it seem like there’s a part of me that will always fall short? But even when I ask, there’s a deeper question that cuts through everything else, a question that hurts more than any other: Will I ever be enough? Will they ever look at me and feel proud, or am I destined to be a series of almosts, a lifetime of trying without ever really being seen?

I wonder if I’ll ever meet their expectations, if there will ever come a day when they look at me and see something other than my failures. The answer, the one that rings loudest, is always the same: a quiet, empty “no.” A no that settles around me like fog, that fills every corner of my mind, leaving no room for anything else.

And yet, in spite of it all, I keep trying. I keep hoping. There’s a part of me that still believes, foolish as it may be, that maybe one day they’ll see me. Maybe, for just a fleeting moment, they’ll look past my faults and see something worth loving. Maybe, just once, I’ll be enough. Just once, I’ll feel what it’s like to belong, to be loved without question or condition. Just once, I’ll be enough.