For a long time, I didn’t know how to define enough as a writer.
Enough words.
Enough productivity.
Enough discipline.
Enough ambition.
I only knew what wasn’t enough: whatever I had managed that day.
If I wrote 500 words, I should’ve written 1,000.
If I drafted a chapter, I should’ve revised it too.
If I showed up consistently for a week, I should’ve been doing that for years.
“Enough” always lived just out of reach—one more effort away.
And eventually, that way of thinking broke me.
When “Enough” Was Measured by Output
For years, I measured my worth as a writer almost entirely by what I produced.
Word counts.
Finished drafts.
Blog posts published on schedule.
Projects completed cleanly and quickly.
If I struggled to write, I assumed I was failing.
If I needed rest, I treated it like a flaw.
If my energy dipped, I tried to push harder.
But chronic illness, emotional exhaustion, and real life don’t care about tidy productivity systems.
There were days when writing at all felt like trying to breathe underwater—and instead of listening to that, I judged myself for it.
I thought if I just tried harder, I could force myself into the version of a writer I admired.
What I didn’t realize was that I was quietly burning out the part of me that loved writing in the first place.
Redefining “Enough” from the Inside Out
Eventually, something had to change.
Not because I stopped caring about writing—but because I cared too much to let it become another source of harm.
I started asking a different question:
What if “enough” isn’t about how much I produce—but how I treat myself while creating?
That shift changed everything.
Now, “enough” looks quieter. Softer. More human.
And honestly? More sustainable.
What “Enough” Looks Like for Me Now
Enough is showing up honestly
If I sit down to write and all I can manage is a paragraph, that still counts.
If I open the document, reread what I wrote yesterday, and stop—that counts too.
Showing up without forcing, shaming, or self-punishment is enough.
Enough is listening to my body
There are days my body is loud with pain or fatigue or brain fog.
On those days, enough might mean:
- Journaling instead of drafting
- Brainstorming instead of outlining
- Resting instead of creating
Writing doesn’t get better when I ignore my limits—it gets quieter and harder to reach.
Enough means honoring the signals instead of overriding them.
Enough is working in seasons
I no longer expect every week—or even every month—to look the same.
Some seasons are for drafting.
Some are for reflection.
Some are for rest, learning, or simply surviving.
Enough doesn’t demand constant output. It allows ebb and flow.
Enough is unfinished work
This one took me a long time to accept.
An unfinished story is not a failure.
A paused project is not wasted time.
A half-formed idea still holds value.
Enough means allowing stories to exist in progress, without pressure to justify themselves by completion alone.
Enough is protecting my relationship with writing
If a method, goal, or expectation makes me dread the page—it’s not worth it.
Writing is something I want to return to again and again over a lifetime.
Enough means choosing approaches that keep that door open.
Letting Go of the Imaginary Standard
Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed an invisible checklist:
- Write every day
- Publish constantly
- Be resilient at all times
- Never fall behind
- Never lose momentum
But that standard was never designed for real human lives.
It wasn’t designed for chronic illness.
Or grief.
Or caregiving.
Or burnout.
Or seasons where survival takes precedence over creativity.
Letting go of that imaginary standard didn’t make me less of a writer.
It made me a kinder one.
Enough Is Allowed to Change
What feels like enough today might not feel like enough next year—and that’s okay.
Enough is not a fixed destination.
It’s a conversation you keep having with yourself.
One that asks:
- What do I have capacity for right now?
- What supports me instead of drains me?
- What keeps me connected to my creative self?
Sometimes enough is a chapter.
Sometimes it’s a sentence.
Sometimes it’s simply remembering that you are a writer—even when the page stays blank.
A Gentle Reminder (For You and for Me)
You don’t need to earn rest.
You don’t need to justify slower progress.
You don’t need to prove your commitment through exhaustion.
If writing is still something you care about—if the stories still matter to you—that is already enough to begin again.
And again.
And again.
Happy Writing ^_^
Sara's Writing Sanctuary 