Enough

When I was in fourth grade, the school psychologist IQ tested me. We played  with puzzles and she asked some questions like,"How far is it from the US to London?" to which I answered "Well, it depends. Where in the US are we starting from?" (My snark started young.)

When we were all done, she spent a few minutes with a calculator, my papers, and a pen while my  heart raced and I pretended to do another puzzle. I didn't know God, but I sure was praying.

Praying that the score would be high enough.
Praying that I would be good enough.
I didn't know what "enough" was, but I believed this score could make me one step closer to it.

The psychologist shuffled some papers, flipped my academic file around towards me, and started pointing with a pen. I guess she never got the memo that you don't tell nine year olds their IQ score. She pulled out a chart that showed what scores fit into which categories. I held my breath as she told me my score and my eyes scanned for the category that I had hoped and prayed for.

I was enough.
I was special.
I literally fit into a nice little box with nice little definite numbers.
I knew where I stood in the world.

I went home that day, a spring in my step and a new sense of pride. At dinner, my mother asked me my score (because, ya know, that's casual elementary school table talk). I beamed, yearning for her approval, and blurt out the three numbers that now defined me.

My mother, without missing a beat or looking my way, snorted and said "Yeah? Well my score is XXX," a number three points higher than mine.

I deflated.
I was not enough.

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I spent the rest of my life fighting for numbers, fighting to be cerebral, to be the best, to have the highest scores and GPA and grades.

Consequently, I also spent the rest of my life attacking myself when this naturally could not happen.

Somehow I also believed that our intelligence was a natural gifting; an IQ score was something we are simply born with and maybe can fluctuate slightly during early development thanks to nutrition, caretaking, and other environmental factors.

I was simply the product of a lucky roll of the dice - and therefore could not pride myself in my accomplishments, because I was "cheating" the system by riding on a gift that I had not worked for.

I shrugged off everything my dear mentors, friends, and professors tried to show me about who I was. I ignored everything that Christ said about who he made me to be.

At one point, I was praying that I never got a head injury because I would lose all of my worth if I was no longer smart. (Ironically, I did have a MTBI my sophomore year of college - and my friends still loved me, I still had a job, and I still graduated.)

But grades were never meant to be enough.
IQ scores were never meant to define us.
Numbers were meant for making exchanges and keeping dates, not for defining people.

I knew this - but I also had no other way to judge my worth.
Ironically, nobody really likes a kid that is fighting to be the smartest in the room.
In our culture of success-is-best, any other redeeming attribute I had was largely overlooked by an over-inflated GPA.
So I assumed that I was not kind, compassionate, funny, empathetic - all of the characteristics I thought were far from me because I was too smart.
Or maybe because I was just smart.

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A lot of people ask me why I am in social work and not science.
I need to be a good social worker for myself as much as the world needs good social workers.
I need to discover strengths and talents beyond my head, and I need to learn to lean into my weaknesses.

Today I won Field Intern of the Year in my cohort. Not the Research Award. Not the Outstanding Student Award.

It's the biggest honor I have ever received - because it has nothing to do with IQ.

My supervisor said she had clients in her office crying because I had left. She described me as intelligent, innovative, creative, and empathic.

Empathic.

Finally something that I could not judge by a number.
Finally something that wasn't centered around intelligence.
Finally something that was human to human, Imago Dei.

I think a lot of my clients struggle with some of the same beliefs. When you have a severe mental illness, it is hard for the world to see what you have to offer. It's hard to believe in your God-given value when everything around you tells you you're invaluable. Like my biological gift, it's hard to see yourself beyond a pervasive biological barrier (sometimes science and numbers will mess you up). It's hard to make room for Christ when you don't feel like you can even make room for yourself.

The good news is that Christ made the room for us.
And he made many rooms in his Father's house.

Finally, after a year telling, reminding, modeling, and providing a safe space for my clients to discover that they always have been and always will be enough, I can start to believe it for myself too.