Erasing Myself to Be Enough

I’m in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters for the second time even though they’re already clean. The baby is finally asleep, and my daughter is at kindergarten. It’s quiet, but the silence doesn’t bring peace. My heart feels heavy, like it’s sinking into my chest, pulling everything else down with it. I messed it up. I messed so many things up.

Nathan hates me. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it in every dismissive shrug. He hates me. He says he wants me out of his life. He says he wishes I didn’t exist. Is that true? Could someone really wish that about the person they once loved? If I died today—if I simply stopped existing—what would he feel? Relief? Regret? Would he even feel anything at all?

And then there’s the question that gnaws at me, the one I can’t seem to silence no matter how hard I try: What if I could fix it? What if I could somehow become the woman he says I’m not? The woman he imagines—the one who never complains, never falters, never makes a mistake. What if I could shape myself into that ideal? Would he love me then? Would I be enough?

But what does that even look like? How do I approach it? I feel like I’m standing at the base of an impossible mountain, squinting at the peak and trying to map a path I can’t even see. What steps would I have to take to become the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect woman he seems to think exists somewhere, just not in me? Would it mean swallowing every word, every emotion, every piece of myself that isn’t convenient or easy? Would I have to shrink myself into something smaller, quieter, more manageable?

And if I did—if I somehow succeeded—what would be left of me? What would be left of the woman I was born to be? The woman who used to laugh easily, dream boldly, feel deeply. Would I even recognize myself in the mirror anymore? Or would I become a hollow version of myself, someone molded and reshaped by his demands, his criticisms, his impossible expectations?

I grip the edge of the sink, staring at the soapy water swirling down the drain. My reflection in the window above the sink stares back, and for a moment, I barely recognize her. There’s a crack in my chest that feels like it might split open if I don’t stop thinking. But I can’t stop. These thoughts keep looping, like a broken record.

If I became everything he wanted, would it be enough for him? Or would it only mean there was nothing left of me?

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