Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
I wake up already losing.
Not in a dramatic way—
no thunder, no collapse—
just the quiet certainty
that I am already behind
in a race I don’t remember entering.
You again,
the voice says.
Still here.
Still mediocre.
Still pretending this will become something.
I brush my teeth like someone
who expects nothing from the day.
You’re not good enough.
You never were.
The words land softly,
like they’ve been rehearsed.
Because they have.
I carry them everywhere—
in the way I hesitate before speaking,
in the way I reread every sentence
like it might confess
I am a fraud.
You should stop.
I try to argue.
I try to say—
No, I’m learning,
No, I’m growing,
No, this matters—
but the voice laughs,
low and familiar.
You’re not growing.
You’re circling.
You’ve been here before.
And maybe that’s true.
Maybe I am just
a loop of almost.
A collection of attempts
that never quite become anything worth keeping.
I sit down anyway.
Because what else is there to do?
My hands hover over the keys
like they don’t belong to me.
This is embarrassing,
the voice says.
Imagine someone reading this.
Imagine them seeing you.
I almost stop.
God, I almost stop.
Because the feeling is so loud—
so convincing—
so absolute
that it feels like truth.
Like fact.
Like something proven.
You are not enough.
There it is again.
Clear. Certain. Final.
And for a moment,
I believe it.
I let it settle into my bones
like it’s always been there,
like it’s the most honest thing
about me.
I am not enough.
…
But then—
something quieter.
Not hopeful.
Not inspiring.
Not brave.
Just… stubborn.
A whisper that doesn’t argue,
doesn’t defend,
doesn’t try to win.
It just says:
So what.
The voice stutters.
So what if you’re not enough.
So what if this is bad.
So what if you fail in the most obvious, humiliating way possible.
So what.
My fingers move.
Slow.
Reluctant.
Uncertain.
You’re proving my point,
the voice snaps.
This is nothing. This is garbage.
Maybe.
I keep going.
Maybe it is garbage.
Maybe it always will be.
Maybe I will never arrive
at whatever version of myself
I keep trying to earn.
But I am still here.
Typing.
Writing.
Doing the thing
you told me I couldn’t.
The feeling swells again—
sharp, insistent, relentless.
Stop.
Stop before someone sees.
Stop before you embarrass yourself.
I don’t.
Not because I’m strong.
Not because I believe in myself.
Not because I’ve conquered anything.
But because—
feelings aren’t even real.
Not in the way you pretend they are.
They are weather.
Passing.
Loud, convincing, temporary.
They shout
like they are permanent.
They lie
like they are truth.
They feel like facts.
But they aren’t.
And I am so tired
of obeying something
that changes
by the hour.
So I write.
With doubt in my throat.
With fear in my chest.
With that voice still talking—
still telling me I am nothing.
I write anyway.
Because if I wait
until I feel worthy,
I will die waiting.
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BEGIN EACH DAY WITH SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL
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Poetry by Britt Wolfe:
How much of a lifetime do we surrender to things that never happen? All of the Horrible Things That Never Happened is a poignant reflection on worry, the quiet cruelty of imagined catastrophes, and the precious hours we sacrifice preparing for futures that may never arrive. It explores the heartbreaking irony of spending so much of our limited time fearing what might go wrong, only to discover that time itself was the one thing we could never afford to lose. For anyone who has ever lain awake rehearsing disasters, postponed happiness until everything felt certain, or forgotten to notice the beauty of an ordinary day while waiting for something terrible to happen. 💚