White, Dave. Hideaway. August 12. 2024, Dave White Illustrations.

Everything feels like nothing,
And nothing consumes me whole.
Every morning, I wake up to the weight
Of a single word: inadequate.

Inadequate as a daughter,
Inadequate as a friend,
Inadequate in my own body—
A battle with no end.

What is inadequacy?
A shadow that whispers my flaws,
A storm that drowns my thoughts,
A mirror reflecting all my scars.

It keeps me awake through endless nights,
When the moon howls,
And the sun chirps.
The world looks on,
But never offers a hand.

My heart aches for the smallest things,
For successes that still feel like failures.
Each triumph, hollow—
A fragile mask for my inadequacy.

Inadequate.
I could not protect my skin,
From hands that left me unwhole,
From voices that tore into my soul.

Inadequate.
No matter how I fight,
My past whispers,
“You’ll never be right.”

I try to build myself anew,
But the tools break beneath my hands.
I try to move forward,
Yet my feet are stuck in sand.

And the voices scream:
“You should have told us.”
“You should have fought.”
“You’re weak, you’re nothing, a waste, a blot.”
Their words take root, define my name,
Flood my veins, ignite my shame.

Inadequate becomes my breath,
Inadequate defines my steps.
And everything I’ve worked to achieve,
Feels like nothing,
Because I still don’t believe.

But I am tired.
Tired of being less.
Tired of letting “inadequate,”
Control my worth, my rest.

So, to those voices,
To the whispers that lie,
I ask you this:

How do I rise?
How do I fight?
How do I let the shadows
Step into the light?

Because I will.
Day by day,
I’ll learn to push inadequacy away.
Though it clings to my mind,
It will not define
The strength I carry, the soul that is mine.

I am not just my scars, my pain.
I am the sun after the rain.
And though “inadequate” whispers still,
I’ll silence it with my own will.

Piece by piece, I’ll rebuild,
For I am enough—I always will.