Recently, I woke up at 2:17 am. I’d been dreaming about software again — a problem I had been trying to solve for a client, unsuccessfully, and now my brain refused to set it down. I started at the ceiling then the walls, rehearsing solutions that felt urgent but useless at 2 am. By 3:45, I gave up and reached for my phone.
Email. Social media. Wordscapes because apparently I like solving problems that don’t matter while ignoring the ones that do.
By 5:30, I quit pretending; quit trying. I showered, cracked open a Diet Dr. Pepper, and sat down to write.
Writing feels like enough.
Sometimes.
Writing doesn’t demand anything of me. There are no deadlines. No client meetings. No invoices. Just words that only have to matter to me first.
A few weeks ago, we bought a car for our 17-year-old. Low miles. Clean title. Honestly, we’d been looking for cars and it felt like a deal too good to pass up.
And somehow, instead of celebrating, my mind translated it into hours — how many nights I’d keep my laptop open too long. I keep a running tally, as though every splurge — even a Diet Dr. Pepper — needs to be earned.
I know that’s not how life works.
But I still do it.
This morning, after writing for an hour, I sat there staring at the blinking cursor, thinking about my clients. I’ve been in distribution for more than twenty-five years. I know every aisle of a warehouse, every screen of an ERP system, and the headaches that come with moving products from one dock to another. I’m good at it. I help companies keep their promises, and I know the work I do supports real families.
But I’m not irreplaceable.
That truth has been scraping against me lately. I can do this job well. I can care deeply. I love the science of moving boxes. But I am not the fulcrum the whole thing balances on. Some days, that’s a relief. Other days, it’s an ache — like I’m letting go of the hero role I never really wanted but also never want to lose.
Enough.
That word has been on my mind for months. It’s how I close almost every essay I write. It’s intentional because it feels like I’m still trying to convince myself.
Because most days, I don’t feel it.
But some days, I catch it — like sunlight streaking through a window I didn’t know was open.
It happens when I write. When I push away from my computer at 4:30 p.m. for “party night” with my youngest and don’t check my email again until morning. When I notice my wife across the room and remember that no matter how many zeros live in the bank account, I already have the things that matter most.
For a moment, it’s enough.
And then, like fog rolling in from nowhere, it slips again. Back to the hum of work, the invisible ledger, the belief that if I can just do a little more, be a little more, fix a little more, I might finally earn rest. Enoughness.
But maybe “enough” isn’t something you earn.
Maybe it’s something you learn to stop arguing with.
I don’t know. I’m not there yet.
GENTRI wrote a song called “Enough.” It’s my favorite song. I’ve listened to it hundreds of times. There are times when the lyrics still wreck me:
I wake to face the day, already buried under
The noise that never fades…
There’s never enough time to keep up…
But then…
Maybe that’s the thing: maybe I’ve been measuring “enough” in hours, invoices, and finished checklists when it’s been hiding all along in the 2 a.m. quiet, in my kids laughing at a stupid dad joke, in my wife reaching for my hand at the kitchen table, or in the fizz of a cold Diet Dr. Pepper long before the sun even comes up.
I’m not sure yet.
But today, I’ll sit down to write again.
I’ll watch my words show up one by one, like headlights in the fog, only far enough to keep going.
And for now, that is enough.
Thanks for reading, and before you go. . .
I’m Aaron Pace. I write from the middle of things — life, business, fatherhood, faith, and the slow work of becoming someone I can live with. Not as an expert, but as someone trying to pay attention.
If this piece resonated with you, I’d be honored if you followed along here on Medium. I write — not because I’ve arrived, but because I’m finally moving again.
Also, I wrote a book you might appreciate. It’s called You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free — a collection of my reflections on identity, meaning, and building a life I don’t want to run away from.
You can check it out here:
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