Let’s talk about …Being Enough!

Last night, that truth drifted up from Broadway like it hitched a ride on a warm updraft. Someone idling at the light had their windows rolled down, and Roxanne by The Police came blasting through the air, bouncing between buildings like the city was suddenly harmonizing with my thoughts.

And I stood there for a moment, just listening — to the song, the traffic, the city sighing in rhythm. Roxanne isn’t just about a woman or her profession. It’s about that eternal ache to be chosen, to be seen, to be enough in someone else’s eyes. That song is forty-five years old, but the need it names? Timeless. It’s in our culture’s bloodstream now. We package our worth in shiny little ways — filtered faces, curated captions, applause disguised as love — all trying to earn something we were born with.

Validation has become the modern currency of existence. Every scroll, every “like,” every compliment hits the same chemical slot machine in our brain. But the payout never lasts. It’s the emotional equivalent of eating cotton candy — big, sweet, gone in seconds. We’re left chasing that next little hit of proof that we matter. But the proof was never out there. It was always in here.

That’s what DG was getting at. You can’t fill what’s already full. You can only forget it for a while. And the forgetting — that’s what hurts. Because it’s not that we don’t have enoughness; it’s that we keep renting it out to anyone willing to look our way.

Maybe the lesson in Roxanne isn’t about love or shame or reputation — maybe it’s about awakening. About realizing that when your validation depends on someone else’s recognition, you’re handing them the keys to your peace. And culture feeds on that. It tells us to shine, but only in a way it can monetize. It sells insecurity as aspiration and then calls it empowerment.

But standing there on Broadway, with the night wind carrying that song and the horns and the laughter from the sidewalk below, I realized something quieter — validation isn’t evil; it’s just misplaced. We’re supposed to reflect it, not collect it. To mirror it in each other, not mine it from strangers.

Maybe the antidote is learning to see ourselves the way the city sees us — imperfect but magnificent, loud but alive, a little cracked, still shining. Maybe enoughness isn’t about convincing the world anymore. Maybe it’s about remembering you were never waiting to be chosen. You were just waiting to choose yourself.

And as the light changed and the car rolled off into the night, Roxannefaded under the hum of traffic — but the message stayed. The city, as always, had translated it perfectly:

You are already enough. Stop asking for permission to believe it.