The Irony of Enough

There’s always a better.

A better house, a better car,
a better skin, a better life.
Someone out there always seems
to be doing it better than you.

And so, we run.

We work to own,
own to prove,
prove to be seen,
seen to feel worthy.

My home might be a palace
to someone who’s had none.
To someone else, it’s outdated.
That’s the joke, isn’t it?
The same thing - worshipped, pitied, or ignored -
depending on who’s looking.

We build our worth on objects.
Square footage. Logos. Numbers.
The world claps louder for what can be counted.
So we keep collecting,
thinking that more will finally mean enough.

But where do you store
a quiet moment with someone who gets you?
Or the way it feels when you’re held
without needing to ask?

What shelf holds
the sound of your father’s laugh,
or the memory of being truly seen
without having to speak?

We don’t call those things “wealth.”
But maybe we should.

Because what really stays
isn’t the car you bought,
but who sat beside you on the drive.

Not the size of the house,
but the stories whispered in its corners.

Not the ring,
but the love that kept showing up long after the sparkle dulled.

There is always a better.
Always a newer, shinier, more filtered version of a life.
But the richest people I’ve met
don’t have more things.
They just notice more.

They know peace when it visits.
They make room for stillness.
They place value
not on what they can hold,
but on what they can feel,
deep, unspoken,
and real.

So maybe life isn’t about climbing.
Maybe it’s about tuning in.

Because the difference between “not enough” and “everything”
isn’t in what you have.
It’s in how you see it.