Some days, I wonder if I’m just not good at anything. Not great. Not gifted. Just… okay.

I look around and see people who seem to have found their thing—their craft, their confidence, their rhythm. They create, they lead, they speak with clarity. And I shrink a little in comparison, unsure what I bring into the room that’s truly mine.

I’ve tried things. I’ve learned skills. I’ve made progress. But nothing has ever felt like a calling. Nothing has made me think, *yes, this is it, this is what I’m here for*. And when I’m honest with myself, that leaves a quiet ache I can’t fully name.

It’s not about success or recognition. It’s about belonging—to something, to somewhere, to some version of myself that feels aligned and certain. But instead, I feel like I’m drifting between identities, always slightly out of place, slightly unfinished.

And sometimes I think: what if I was never meant to be impressive? What if my life doesn’t build toward mastery, but toward presence? Toward softness? Toward quiet contribution?

Because maybe being “good at something” is overrated. Maybe it’s not about finding one great thing and making it my identity. Maybe it’s about being kind. About being consistent. About listening when people need to speak, or offering calm when the world is chaotic.

I don’t know. I still want to find something that feels like mine. I still want to feel proud. But until then, I’ll keep showing up—quietly, imperfectly, fully. And maybe that’s a kind of goodness too.