Where Have You Been Taught That Enough Is the Holy Middle Ground?

A Journaled Inquiry into Language, Scarcity, and the Remembrance of I Am

Sometimes, when I sit down to write, something unexpected shows up. A thread I didn’t know I was following… until I do.

 "In so many ways, I feel lost. 

I’m working. 

I’m writing. 

I’m producing. 

I’m being of service. 

And I am tired. 

My body feels older.

My cells are tired.

My mind carries the years.

I want to find my rhythm again. 

I want to find the flow. 

I want to feel ... enoughness? 

Enough money. 

Enough safety. 

Enough comfort. 

Enough of me."

Because this word — it’s everywhere, this word "enough." It’s baked into religion.  Folded into culture.  Whispered through generations.  Used like a blessing as well as a muzzle. 

And as I leaned in more closely, I realized:  Enough implies the possibility that you could not have or could not be enough.  Enough implies there’s a threshold you’re supposed to reach, and then stop.  Not more.  Not too much.  Just… enough. 

We use it to convince ourselves that what we have is safe, even when it isn’t. Like a child with a spoonful of oats.  Like a woman counting coins to make rent.  Like someone talking themselves into believing that this box, this room, this life… has enough air.  Enough light.  Enough love. 

You can’t tell a hungry belly that one spoonful is enough, not when the body remembers hunger. Not when the soul knows more is possible. To do so creates a heartbreak — not just emotional, but spiritual. It imprints the nervous system with lack and teaches the soul to settle.

I started feeling into the energetic imprint of the humble ones.  The beautiful ones.  The people who have made what they’re experiencing on Earth enough.  Those who have practiced presence and survival and spiritual surrender so long that the “enoughness” becomes holy. 

And I felt the ache.  Because there’s truth in that.  And also… there’s a trick. There’s a lie embedded in the virtue. 

(Author’s Note: When I read this first part back to myself, I got uncomfortable.  Not because it wasn’t true — but because it was.  I could feel the internal and social tension — the programming that says even questioning the virtue of humbleness is selfish.  I could feel my discomfort in asking for more.  I felt the shadow of guilt just for exploring the idea that maybe, just maybe, we were taught to settle.  This piece brings truth.  And truth, sometimes, brings discomfort, but let’s keep going.)

 More Carries the Charge of Asking 

There’s a voice that says, “Who are you to want more?” 

And another, quieter voice that says, “Who are you not to?” 

Then I felt it — the contrast.  The way the word “more” lives in the body so differently than “enough.” 

"Enough" carries the whisper of safety. 

"More" carries the charge of asking. 

And I want to know why? What happens in us when we say “I want more”? 

What gets activated?  Shame?  Ego?  Suspicion? 

Do we hear the voice of a parent, a pastor, a partner? 

Do we feel greedy?  Do we feel selfish? 

Do we feel afraid that something bad will happen if we let ourselves want that much? 

Because for some of us, somewhere in our wiring, the energy of "more" has been bastardized.  Not just distorted — made bad. 

It’s not neutral, not expansive, not joyful like it should be.  It’s... risky. 

Like “more” is too much. 

Like you’ll have to protect it, or guard it, or hoard it. 

Like if you have more, someone else will have none. 

We’re taught that wanting more leads to greed. 

And we’re taught that having enough is holy. 

And neither of those are true. 

Because the truth is — in the quantum field, more is not greedy.  More is natural. 

More is the next breath of the soul remembering itself. 

And then it hit me like a wave — I’ve lived this too. I know the quiet dignity of making peace with very little. I know the shape of days built around survival and surrender. And I also see the nuance now. The cost. The quiet trade-off.

Yes, there is real beauty in the spiritual grace of simplicity.  There is wisdom in the ones who find their divinity in lives lived gently. 

And there’s also a system — an invisible one — that can use this humility as a kind of leash. 

That teaches us to find peace in scarcity so we don’t rise toward wholeness. 

That turns survival into sanctity. 

And the deeper truth is this: The measurement of “more” is already within us.  No matter how much or how little we have in the external world — whether we’re scraping by or owning Boardwalk and Park Place — the vibration of more, of everything, of the whole I Am is intact. 

This isn’t about bank accounts. 

This isn’t about oats or offerings or rent due or spiritual currency. 

This is about the more-ness that can never be taken. 

The Fractal Garden of I Am 

So what happens  when the remembering begins? 

What happens when the spoonful is still small  and the rent is still due  and the world still insists you should be grateful for what’s in your box — — and yet, something in you remembers  the field beyond the box, the More beyond the Enough, the I Am that pulses beneath every ceiling ever placed over your head? 

What happens is this:  The ceiling cracks.  The glass slivers.  And the breath that rushes in feels like home. Because the I Am isn’t just the peace.  It’s not just the soft breath of spiritual surrender. It’s also the ignition. 

The I Am is the explosion into fractal color. 

The breaking open of the quantum vault. 

The sudden awareness that you are not asking for too much — you are asking for what was always yours. 

Not for more in a greedy sense. 

Not for more as in better than others. 

But for the full reinhabiting of your full divinity. 

More is not a fortress to guard. 

More is a garden to tend.

And the garden is within you. 

When you remember this — really remember it — you stop trying to spiritually negotiate for scraps. 

You stop pretending that starvation is virtuous. 

You stop fearing that wanting more will make you unlovable. 

You stop trying to breathe humility when your soul is roaring for expression. 

You begin to live inside the question: What if I already am what I’ve been told I had to earn? 

And then — eventually — you stop even asking the question. 

Because your body knows. 

Because your breath knows. 

Because the garden is blooming. 

Because the vault is open. 

Because you are not trying to become what you already are. 

You are I Am.  You always were. 

And now, finally, you remember. 

Closing Invitation: Checking In With the Body 

This piece didn't flow forth here to tell us what to believe.  For me it is here to pose the questions — the ones that crack ceilings, unsettle programming, and sometimes make you want to both cry and dance at the same time. 

So you're invited to place a hand on your heart, your belly, or wherever the energy landed for you, and ask: 

Did something in me rise up in frustration, in defensiveness, in anger? 

Did something small inside feel seen for the very first time? 

Did I feel shame? 

Resistance? 

Or a sudden sense of permission I didn’t expect? 

All of that is welcome.  All of that is true. 

If you felt frustration or anger — that’s so totally okay.  That means something important got touched.  You’re allowed to feel it.  You’re allowed to wonder if it’s selfish to want more.  You’re allowed to question everything you were taught. 

And if you felt something crack open — if a little light slipped in through a long-held ceiling — that’s okay too.  In fact, it’s beautiful. It’s a sacred thing to check in with the way a truth lands in your body.  It will tell you so much: about how the world has tried to imprint you, about what your soul remembers, and about the kind of love, peace, power, and More-ness that has always been yours. 

It is safe to feel joy.  It is safe to feel discomfort.  It is safe to feel inspired, overwhelmed, or undone. Because what we’re doing here?  This is soul work.  This is unlearning the box. This is the path home to I Am. 

And for me? I’m still walking this path too. I still feel the echo of that small voice asking if it’s okay to want more. I still have to catch myself when I make scarcity sacred. But I’m remembering. And that remembering is changing me.

Love is all there is.

Peace is your birthright.

And the truth of I Am was never lost—only waiting to be remembered.

Elaine Bracken Healing | ElaineBracken.com