Never Enough - By Sarah Kim

Written By: Sarah Kim

Category: Short Memoir

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Sarah Kim presents her evocative short memoir, "Never Enough." This compelling piece invites readers into the intricate web of familial relationships, where emotional complexities and personal introspection intertwine. As a daughter, wife, and mother, Sarah shares her poignant journey of self-discovery, navigating the often-challenging dynamics within her family. Her narrative resonates with anyone who has ever felt the weight of familial expectations and the struggle to find their own identity.

About the Work

"Never Enough" is a heartfelt exploration of Sarah Kim's personal experiences, capturing the emotional nuances of her relationships with her family. The memoir's tone is introspective and candid, offering a raw glimpse into the complexities of familial love and expectations. Through vivid storytelling and reflective insights, Sarah conveys a powerful message about self-worth and the courage to embrace one's own path. Her narrative style is intimate, allowing readers to deeply connect with her journey of self-acceptance.

Never Enough

Original Submission by Sarah Kim

Never Enough by Sarah Kim

Disclaimer: I do not aim to make anyone look bad. I do not aim to make you feel bad about myself or hate the ones I’m writing about. I only aim to attempt to make you understand my point of view. But then again, I can’t control your judgment. I write from the point of view of a daughter, wife and a mother. So, this is my story.

*

“You’re too sensitive and easily aggravated to the extent you isolate yourself from your family. You end up hurting them — including your mum. You try putting yourself in our shoes for once because we understand you. I speak for my family, not the people I don’t know.”

I sighed thinking, ‘I don’t need this right now’ as I put my phone away. I buried myself in work and in the end, I forgot to reply to that message from my mother.

Little did I know that that was the last time we talked.

Well, actually, there were a lot of instances like this. Mummy would give me a harsh reality check about myself that seemed to be the biggest problem in the world and I end up isolating myself in silence while we give each other the cold shoulder. It was often me who had to break the ice, lower my ego to appease my mother.

I never knew what I actually did wrong. Too sensitive? Too outspoken? Too emotional that I make everyone around me uncomfortable? Was that really who I was?

I always didn’t know what it was but one thing was for sure:

I was never enough.

*

As a child, when you set a goal, you really believe in it and work your way to get what you want. That was the formula: believe in it and goals.

And one more main ingredient: faith.

Growing up, I lost faith and belief in goals. I thought of goals as something silly, childlike and usually unachievable. I kept wondering why people set goals? Why are they so important? Aren’t they going to be only demotivated and devastated when they don’t achieve what they set out for?

At job interviews, they’ll always ask you what your goals are for the next five to ten years or where you see yourself in the next five or ten years. I don’t even have a goal for next month, let alone the next five to ten years. But no judgment to those who actually set goals and met them. In fact, I give them a salute as they are a determined perseverant bunch of people whom I just cannot relate to.

I had goals. I remembered one day when my mother called all 5 of us girls to write on a mahjong paper what our goals were in the next ten years. Yep, not only companies did that for interviews, my mum did too. As we all gathered on the floor with coloured markers and to each their own mahjong paper to write on, we thought of our own goals ourselves.

I was only 12 at that time but I somehow had a vision of what I wanted to achieve in the next coming years.

I wanted to be a good Muslim, get a college degree, be a teacher and get married at 24 years old.

Rather specific for a 12 year old to be thinking of her goals in that sense. In a perspective, it looked like the goals of a typical girl — the end goal of getting married. But I’m running off topic here. The point is that at that time, when I was writing down my goals on the large mahjong paper with colourful markers of teal blue and orange, I believed in my goals.

I believed that I could be all those things. Although not exactly ground breaking goals but goals nonetheless. I had faith that I could be a good Muslim, get a college degree, be a teacher and get married at 24 years old.

Lo and behold — fast forward to the future me: graduated with a Bachelor of English Language and Literature at 23 years old, started my teaching career the following year and got married in October when I was 24 years old.

When I noticed how I achieved my goals, I realised how magical and unbelievable it felt to have your goals manifested in life in a way you couldn’t have imagined. I reminisced about the 12-year-old me who really thought of her goals, believing in them, thinking that they could come true. The determination felt at that mere age of 12. To experience my goals manifested, I felt like my life was falling into place. I felt like I was really getting what I wanted in life. It felt miraculously surreal.

When I looked back at my mahjong paper of goals, I realised there was one goal in particular that I did not write.

A goal of becoming a writer.

My mum always told me I had a vivid imagination. I liked to create stories. Sometimes, when I told them, she wasn’t sure if it was true or not. It became so bad that when I finally decided to tell the truth, no one believed me. I was The Girl Who Cried Wolf.

Let me indulge you in that story.

I was 10 years old in a new school. I was talkative and I think at some point, my teachers were tired of me. Evidently, my Maths teacher was tired of me. I don’t exactly remember the tales I told her but I remember a particular one vividly. One day, I had to submit my homework. I did

not because coincidentally, the night before, we had a blackout. I wasn’t that creative or determined to get my Maths homework done because 1) I do not like Maths and 2) it was a perfect excuse for me to tell my teacher tomorrow.

So when I finally told my teacher in full confidence that I couldn’t do my homework because of a blackout, she took her phone and immediately called my mother.

I think you can imagine the embellishments I make to my stories to the extent that my teacher had to call my mum to verify my story. I wasn’t really proud of that stage in my life.

In relation to a vivid imagination, I thought of putting it into writing. I loved entering creative writing competitions, essays in exams, writing whatever my imagination could take me. I was confident in myself.

Until one day, my mum told me I could never be a writer. How my heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. To make it worse, she compared me to my sister who apparently could write better because she had a better sense of humour and that was put into her writing.

Oh so I thought, in order to write better, I have to be funny which also is another way of telling me that I’m not a funny person so I can’t write any good material.

Got it, Mum.

I was also told that I had a temper, I couldn’t handle my emotions well, I’m rebellious, I’m always finding a way to not do what my mum asks me to do, I don’t live up to her expectations of what a daughter should be in her eyes, I’m not more of this, not more of that, I can never be enough.

That’s exactly when I didn’t believe in goals and anything else unless it had my mum’s seal of approval. Her opinions shaped my thoughts so much that I would even think that if my own house is messy, will Mummy be proud of me? She’ll take one look at the living room and see the cushions are not plumped well enough and say, “this is a messy house.”

So, again, there was only one conclusion to draw: I am not enough.

*

If I were to come up with instances of how my mother degrades me, it would be a very thick book. It would make more sense if I provided a short background context about my relationship with my mother.

Year 2001. Petaling Jaya, Selangor.

I was 5 years old, sitting at the passenger seat of the dark blue Volvo my Papa always drove. We were going somewhere. I didn’t really care because I loved car rides, especially with Papa. Every time I look out the window and see a passing vehicle, I will always cheer for Papa to race past them. As an adult, I know how dangerous that encouragement is. So, as Papa sped through the road, I finally asked where we were going.

“We’re going to meet your new mother,” Papa answered.

So, Mummy is my stepmother. My mother who gave birth to me died of cervix cancer when I was 2. As sad as that was, I didn’t have any memories with her. Although, I wish I had. I never asked Papa or any of my sisters what Mama was like. I knew what she looked like. She looked just like my second sister, Aly. The only one who had memories of Mama was my eldest sister, Lina. Be that as it may, I still held no sentimental value with Mama. What I was happy about at that time was the fact that I was going to get a new mother.

When I first met my new mother, she came with two other daughters in which I was happy to call my sisters. I clung to one of them like a koala because I always thought she was so beautiful. She was the kind of girl that would have eyes on her if she walked into a room. The kind of girl that if you walked with her, boys would ask who she was first instead of anyone else with her. She had that natural feminine beauty — features of Malay and Mamak descent with long straight thick hair that covered her small round face perfectly and that became the focal point of her beauty. You could see that she put care and thought into how she presented herself through the way she made sure her clothes matched, prim and proper. Coincidentally, we shared the same name.

Sarah.

I thought it was fate. I thought, if she was that pretty, I was too. Even if I wasn’t, I was proud to call her my sister. She was my idol for everything. I wanted to dress the way she did, styled my hair the way she did and she was my inspiration to wear the hijab to school. She wore it so

nicely, putting attention to every detail of her hijab, making sure that every crease disappeared out of sight.

My second stepsister was more boisterous. She had wild curly hair and had little to no care about what she wore. She had a really wild energy around her and her carefree spirit and wittiness made her the centre of the attention. She was always up to no good but at the end of the day, always got away with it. She slept in classes, slept during examinations, didn’t like school but was forced to go anyway, loved snacking and just went about her business according to her whims and fancies. People were drawn to her not because of how she looked, but rather how she carried herself.

Just like that, I gained a new mother whom I get to call ‘Mummy’ and two new sisters. Not only that, we were welcomed into Mummy’s extended family that were so warm and welcoming. I gained new uncles, aunties and cousins that were the same age as me and we were immediately best friends.

As a 5 year old, everything felt perfect. We were the perfect family.

*

2024

I am the type of person who cannot leave notifications unread or unattended to. Sometimes, I would just open my notifications just for the sake of losing the big red number indicating I have unread notifications. The big red number just irks me. So, I tend to my messages quite quickly and sometimes I delay my responses just to attend to something else first. I end up forgetting to reply after that.

Having said that, whenever I receive a text, I will always peek at my phone just to see what the message contains. When I see Mummy’s name appear, I tend to it as quickly as I can. So, one day in 2024, I tended to her messages.

Mummy: I have so many children but none of them are willing to care for us.

Combine the total of my siblings including me, there are 6 of us. 2 of us were living with her. 1 of us lives nearby and always claims to be the best sibling among us. 1 lives with her in-laws in Putrajaya and 1 is estranged.

Me: What do you need, Mum?

Mummy: Someone to help cook for us.

Me: I can help cook. I’ll cook at my place and send the food to the house.

Mummy: Easier said than done. What about the groceries? Where will you cook? Me: Don’t worry about that. I can handle the groceries and I’ll cook at my place. Mummy: Why don’t you cook here?

Me: It’s okay. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll handle it.

Mummy: Okay. Thank you.

For the first time ever, I felt like I was doing something normally good that a family would do for each other. This was not something normal in our family. Cooking was always criticised and never up to Mummy’s level. I never enjoyed cooking because of this. But once I am married, I found a man who seems to enjoy my cooking more than ever and children of my own who appreciate my cooking. So, I thought my family would appreciate it too.

Until later that day, I received another message from Mummy.

Mummy: I discussed this with your sister, Aly. We think that your cooking might not kena tekak kita.

In English, that would mean that my cooking is not their taste. Just like that, my blood boiled. I gathered the strength to type 4 letters and sent it to her:

Me: Okay.

I didn’t want this to bother me. I will not let it bother me. But I couldn’t deny the fact that it made me angry. Cooking for someone is a love language of its own, isn’t it? But when Mummy

replied like that, it was like a spit to my face. Then, it made me remember how she often criticised everyone else’s cooking that always had something wrong with it.

Not enough salt. Too much spice. Too spicy for my stomach. This is not the original way of cooking the dish. My cooking is way better than this dish. With a little bit more practice, your cooking can be as good as mine.

And again, I come to the same conclusion:

I can never be enough.

*

The thing is, whenever something like this happens, as much as I try to mask my reaction, I can never hide from Mummy. Either that or I’m just not good at hiding my reactions. I’m the type of girl that people won’t approach willingly or just because they want to have a conversation. My face has subtitles and a resting bitch face. The combo does not do me good. Therefore, if there is a need to be sociable, it has to be me that makes the first move, only to assure people that I’m a softie despite the unsociable and unapproachable face.

But my soft side has its limits.

I voice out whenever I feel something is unfair. If I don’t use my voice, I use my face. Hence, the subtitles. Unfortunately, that never went well with my family. Being the youngest daughter, I am always considered as adik. The fact that I’m turning 30 and married with two kids does not change that. Whatever it is, I’ll always be in an inferior position in my family. I must always listen to whatever they say or whatever Mummy says because Mummy said so.

Do what Mummy says because Mummy said so.

Why can’t I use my own way? Because Mummy said so.

Why can’t I make decisions of my own? Because Mummy knows best.

Even if I make decisions of my own, my inner voice tells me to always run it by Mummy because she knows best.

Anytime she demeans me publicly, like when she demeans me in front of my friends inside my bedroom that caused my friends to be hesitant to come to my house anymore, I still thought Mummy knows best.

Anytime I followed my whims and fancies like choosing my own course for my degree but it was not what she wanted for me, she would say ‘you don’t have my blessing to take this course’ when I was already in my 3rd year of degree, knowing and fully aware about how her blessings meant a lot to me.

Anytime she tried to justify her decisions for me like telling me to take the public transport back and forth from college to home alone but didn’t allow me to go out with my friends, I would think Mummy knows best, I guess grudgingly.

Anytime anything happens, I was convinced that she knew best. She is my mother. I never considered her my stepmother because she is the only mother I ever knew. I loved her — or so I thought that was what love was.

But really, would a mother do any of those to their child? Or even their stepchild that she convinced she treats fairly?

I learned to ignore these things and just convinced myself that Mummy loves me. That’s why she was doing all of this. She loves me. She wants the best for me. Even if she gave me the cold shoulder, the demeaning hurtful comments laced with sarcasm and called it her love language, the constant questioning of my self-worth and doubt and nothing of her effort to convince me I am okay the way I am, the constant reminder about how I had anger and emotional issues — all of those is for me to be better, to be a good person.

But it never felt that way. I never felt better about myself. I always felt

never enough.

I know she does everything she does because she loves me but I just find it hard to believe it. *

Usually, people would say that when accusing someone of so many bad things, it is also important to remind yourself of the good that that person has done for you. It may overshadow all the bad things that have been done to you because the good might outweigh the bad.

I cannot seem to recall good memories other than she kept me fed, clothed and educated me. When I told people about those good things she did, those are merely my rights as a child. What about love? Affection? Motherly love? Can I recall any of that?

Mummy hates physical touch. Anytime we want to hug her, she would either freeze or grimace at the gesture. Mummy hates it when we say ‘I love you’ all the time because words need to be shown through action as well. Mummy hates being sentimental — unless it was about her own past. When I was sick, she always said that I needed to learn to cope and recuperate on my own. She wouldn’t check in or give some warmth or comfort needed when I was sick.

I’m really trying the best I can to recall. Only one incident that really made me feel like she had my back and supported me when I needed it.

Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of pocket money. Mummy gave us just enough to survive or essentially learn to not waste money on things we didn’t need. In school, you only need money for recess, to fill in your stomach to survive through the day. We didn’t have a lot of pocket money for college as well. Or in Mummy’s words, ‘just enough. If you need more, that means you’re overspending.’

So, clearly, I was an overspender. I liked to go out with friends, eat good food and drink fancy drinks just to keep my sanity afloat during my degree years. I never really told my friends about this but I think they could guess and make their own conclusion about my predicament.

So, Papa always kept his wallet out in the open and he loves cashing out his money. He kept it on an open shelf just above his PC. There laid all the purple notes in his thick wallet. Tempting. Very tempting indeed. I was not one for thrills but this was definitely a cheap thrill for me. The adrenaline I get when I see no one around me and the ability to grab as many (but not too many) purple notes before anyone notices plus the desperate need for cash at the time were my driving forces. So, this was why people mastered sleight of hand. It was exhilarating to be able to take something without anyone noticing. You don’t get caught the first time which means there will be a second time.

Perhaps a third time. Or a fourth. At one point, you stop counting.

Since I lost count, there were bound to be questions about lost money. Sometimes my parents would ask randomly between each other in front of us or ask me specifically or any of my siblings if we knew about any lost money. I, of course, denied all of them.

Until one day, Mummy called me to talk. We were seated in the kitchen. No one was home. It was just her and me. When I was called, I knew there was something she wanted to talk about but I couldn’t pinpoint what it could be about. Nervous, I just waited until she started the conversation.

“So, you know Papa has been missing some cash,” she began.

I nodded.

”Do you know anything about it?” She asked.

I shook my head.

”Are you sure?” She asked again.

This time, I didn’t shake or nod.

“Are you short on cash?”

I hesitated. “Sometimes.”

”Do you need more cash for college?”

I made a head movement that indicated a ‘maybe.’

“What do you need it for?”

”Sometimes, I overspend or don’t plan my expenditure right so I tend to be short on cash.” ”So, if you don’t have enough, what do you do?”

I stayed still.

Mummy hummed. “Did you, by any chance, take Papa’s money?”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond.

”I actually know that you took his money.”

My heart dropped. Caught red-handed. Busted. What was the consequence I was going to get? ”Do you really need the cash?”

I looked down, not ready to face the disappointment on her face.

“If you do, you can always ask. But we’ll also ask what it is for and give you the necessary cash.” Before I knew it, I was sobbing. The guilt was unbearable. I said sorry over and over. ”It’s okay. Just know that this will be between you and me. No one else should know. Promise me you won’t steal anymore. Let me know or let Papa know if you need the cash, okay?”

She hugged me. She actually hugged me. I felt safe, relieved and calm. Ever since then, I never stole again and the warmth and security I felt from Mummy that day stayed with me until today.

*

In an alternate universe, I have an imagined scenario of how I would reconcile with my family. It’s not that elaborate or extravagant. A rather simple reconciliation that leads to a happily ever after.

On one imaginary day, I will finally have the courage to go back to my family’s house. The courage that I managed to build up for months or even years. I am alone. I come without my husband or my kids because this is something I needed to deal with on my own. I drive to the house with my heart beating fast with anxiety. I can only hope to be welcomed warmly.

Once I reach the gates, I park the car just nicely next to the fences as I always do. Breathing in and out a few times, I muster the courage to take a step out of the car. I bring nothing except for myself, my phone, wallet and keys. I take small steps towards the gate and ring the doorbell hesitantly.

One ring. That was always enough.

I check the small gate on the left to see if it is unlocked. True to their routine, it is. I open the gate and allow myself in. The front door is still closed. Should I ring again?

For assurance purposes, I ring one more time. I sit myself on the bench outside the house, overlooking the neighbourhood that I had not been in for some time. Nothing has changed. The surau is still there on the opposite street. The small mundane food court is still there after many years, with their loyal customers who come to hang out and chill together, mostly the uncles that come from the surau after prayer to have a meal or a drink together. The masjid just down the street is still lively with the occupants from the neighbours around it.

As if on cue, the adhan starts. It is already time for dhzuhr prayer. The front door is still closed but anytime now, I know Papa will come out because it is already time for prayer and he needs to make his way to the surau.

I hear the click of the front door and immediately stand up. There he is — Papa standing tall in his jubah, ready for prayer. As he is stepping out, he sees me.

“Well, if it isn’t my prodigal daughter returning,” he begins.

I walk towards him and give him a hug. An earnest one. That instantly triggers the tears in me. “Go inside. We’ll talk after I pray,” Papa says while rubbing my back warmly. I nod, wipe my tears and go inside the house.

It still feels empty. I assume everyone is in their rooms, minding their own business. I walk to the room on the ground floor. The door is closed. I muster my courage again to give a soft knock. Before I know it, the door opens and there she is — Mummy.

Standing in her kaftan, clipped hair that shows more grey hair than before and glasses. She looks stunned to see me but gives a small smile.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

I give her a hug. Surprisingly, I don’t cry when I hug her but I do feel relieved. A sense of relief that this bad blood between us would come to an end. The hug is long but warm. We say

nothing after but give each other a nod of acknowledgment. We acknowledge to put whatever that happened behind us and ready to move forward.

“Your sisters are upstairs,” she mentions.

“Okay, I’ll go say ‘hi,’” I reply.

Going up the second floor, I go to the last room at the end of the corridor. The door is also closed and I hear voices. I knock loud enough for them to hear. The door opens and Sarah pops out.

”Eh, SK,” she greets me with the nickname I grew up with.

Behind her, appeared my sister, Aly. “You just arrived? Where are the boys?” Aly asks. ”I didn’t bring them. Thought to come alone first after, you know, a long time,” I explain. ”Not that I don’t want to see you, but of course I want to see your boys,” Aly said. ”I’ll bring them next time,” I assure.

“Have you eaten? We were just about to order food. Come on,” Sarah invites me into her room and we plop on her bed, scrolling through her phone to decide what food to order.

As they bicker, I let out a small laugh, thinking how I missed this.

There is no need to verbally say we are okay. It is an unsaid agreement. You can feel the shift in the air. A positive air. A more accepting and relaxed air.

After that, things are back to normal, only better because whatever that happened in the past was not brought up again. We learned, we grew and we didn’t want to repeat our own toxic behaviours that affected our family. No more isolating the wrongdoer or talking behind their backs. No more taking sarcastic remarks to heart. No more mentioning of past mistakes and

making them feel bad about themselves for the mistakes they make. No more making sarcastic remarks that make them feel worse about themselves.

All that was negative about us were immediately resolved. We didn’t have to say anything. We just knew. We just understood.

*

There is no anger anymore in my heart. I feel like they are a chapter of my life that passed. A chapter that taught me to discover myself and sometimes discovering means having to lose some people in your life, even if it means your family. Then again, I always hope for them to listen to all the unsaid words and feelings between us and have a proper closure. Since I know that’s something unachievable, I figure I should write them a letter here.

Dear Family,

It’s been almost 6 months since we talked. I always believe that every story has two sides. Mummy, you’ve always taught me to listen to you. I do. But I hope all of you - not just Mummy - realise that sometimes, you don’t truly or earnestly listen to me or the people around you. And perhaps, all of you don’t truly want to see how this youngest sister and daughter has grown up to be more than just an adik in status. Since there are two sides to every story, this is my side to share.

Really, I don’t blame anyone in the family for how this turned out to be between us. I am aware of the decisions I make for myself. If I’m being very honest, this is the most peaceful state I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t have to constantly think about what I do that might make my family feel about me. Like, when I’m always too obvious with my feelings and emotions and especially being angry because that seems to tick everyone off or make everyone walk on eggshells with me. Or when I’m unable to make decisions of my own because I’m always thinking of what Mummy might think or approve. Or what I might say, reply or react that would make anyone in the family feel offended. That’s how it feels like every time I am around you. Not to mention, I always feel like I am a burden if I ask for help. I feel like I am the one walking around eggshells with all of you because anything might just be the reason for another unnecessary drama.

I only now realise that our ‘talks’ at the dining table talking about other people is the unhealthiest thing a family could do. I now realise that earning respect means to accept your family as they grow and change. I now realise that supposedly, everyone in the family is entitled to their own story being told in confidence and it is their story to tell to others. That is a sign of respect and trust. Parents do not own the right to breach that trust.

Parents do not get to use the ‘honour your parents’ card if you don’t give us the same respect and honour as children. Parents do not get to say hurtful things to their children over and over again and expect them not to feel anything but rather expect the words to build them into stronger people. Siblings don’t get to use the ‘akak lebih tua’ card directly or indirectly in every situation when your adik is already married with two kids. Older siblings do not get to treat you indifferently with no warmth but still have the ‘authority’ to call younger siblings out if they mess up.

It’s not to say that I know better than you but there might be some things that you would know better or I would. Siblings are also supposed to respect each other as they grow up and not throw each other under the bus when things get awful for one of them. Where is the sibling support needed when one of us is not okay? Why can’t you guys see me for the adult that I already am? And why does it bother you so much with the decisions I make in my life? I already have a family of my own and so far, my kids are growing up fine, well-fed and well-educated. So far, I’ve not reached the headlines saying “Mother neglects needs of 2 sons.” Isn’t that ‘adult’ enough?

And for the love of God, how does sarcasm lift us up if all we know is sarcasm? Why is it so hard to compliment a job well done or at least a job basically done? Why is it so hard to just be nice?

I could list many more but honestly, I don’t remember much anymore because perhaps I choose not to remember too many of the bad things anymore. Despite that, some things just stick with you. What I do know is that my own family doesn’t know me at all. You claim to know who I am but really, you choose to see who I was as a child growing up. The angry, sensitive, talkative child who loved to make up stories to get anyone’s attention. The child who doesn’t know what she wants in life, who always makes bad choices, who always is headstrong for the things that she wants, always selfish, not thinking of others, too caught up in her own world, and more.

Mummy used to say that we cannot trust strangers or friends with our lives because they don’t know who we are and how we grew up. Or in other words, “nanti kalau awak mati, dorang nak tanam awak ke? Bukan. Keluarga awak yang akan bury you, not them.”

At this rate, I trust my support system more than I trust my own family. My support system can be my family-in-law, my friends, my colleagues, or strangers I met who have become my friends and many more. And no, I don’t go around telling my sob story of how my family is being cruel to me. That might be something YOU might do, but I don’t, especially to people who have no idea about my family background. I will only tell if they ask. And it’s up to them to judge, not me.

So, if you think I’m playing victim, you’re 100% wrong. If you think I’m being toxic, perhaps you should reflect on yourselves as well. If you think our family is the most functioning family ever to co-exist, broaden your mind and open your eyes to see how broken and shattered this family is.

I wouldn’t call this a family. But undoubtedly, I am grateful for the lessons the people in it taught me but I do not owe who I am to you. Perhaps some, but for this better version of me, I’m sorry, you’re not part of it. You only made me realise how much better off I am without you. I am guilt-ridden but at this state of peace, I would not trade it for anything else right now.

I will pray the best for everyone.

Months have passed. I still dread messages from my mother but I aim to be a bigger person and treat her with respect as an older person. I consciously tell myself not to get affected by what she baits me to feel. I won’t let myself be affected if she calls me toxic or if she puts herself as the victim and puts the blame on me for being distant with the family. I will learn to ignore that and keep my head held high because I know I have come so far to not be knocked down easily by these words.

Toxic? If that’s what I am to protect my own peace, that is what I am, then.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious platform celebrating the diverse voices of writers from around the world. This competition provides a unique opportunity for participants to share their creative expressions in various categories, including poetry, short stories, essays, and creative writing. With its commitment to fostering literary talent and encouraging artistic exploration, the competition continues to be a beacon for aspiring and established writers alike.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Sarah Kim for her participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with her insightful memoir, "Never Enough." Her narrative offers a profound reflection on family dynamics and personal growth, resonating deeply with readers. We appreciate her courage in sharing such a personal journey and look forward to seeing more of her creative work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.