“I was fine—until the red pen told me that what I understood wasn’t enough.”
It begins unnoticed.
The classroom is quiet. A child, no older than ten, sits staring at the top corner of her essay: “B+” circled in ink. She had studied hard and felt proud when she finished. But now she wonders what she missed—what she lacked. It was good, but not good enough.
The teacher offers encouragement: “Next time, let’s aim for an A.” It’s well-meaning. But a seed is planted. That seed says: improvement is loveable. Sufficiency is not.
What was missing wasn’t understanding—it was polish.
And suddenly, understanding no longer feels like enough.
Once, ‘Good’ Meant Whole
Once upon a time, the word “good” meant something whole. Something aligned with its purpose. To call a harvest good was to say the land had yielded what was needed. To call a person good was to affirm they lived with integrity, care, and contribution.
“Good” was not a step on the way to greatness—it was a destination in itself.
But today, good has become a pit stop. A quiet disappointment. In casual speech, we might hear, “Just good?”—as though it were a consolation prize. A student who earns a B+ is encouraged to do better. A company praised for ethics is still criticized for not scaling. A kind, steady presence might be overlooked in favor of someone flashier, louder, “better.”
This erosion of “good” did not happen by accident.
The Trap of Degrees
Modern grammar, especially in colonially influenced languages, is obsessed with comparison. Good. Better. Best.
It seems harmless—until we realize how deeply it shapes our thinking.
From the earliest lessons, we’re taught to climb. There is always a better grade, a newer model, a more productive day. “Better” becomes a way of being. “Best” becomes the mirage we chase. And “good” is quietly demoted to mediocrity.
This mindset infects our self-worth. A child is not simply loved—they are praised for winning. A partner isn’t just appreciated—they’re measured against an ideal. Even our joy must be optimized. Even our rest must be earned.
Comparison becomes a condition for belonging. And we internalize it.
Colonial Grammars, Global Psyches
Colonization wasn’t just about land or gold. It was about language. About control over meaning.
To dominate, empires had to measure. To measure, they had to compare. To compare, they had to define one thing as superior.
Indigenous knowledges, local dialects, oral traditions—none of these were inherently lesser. But within the logic of empire, they were made to seem so. Less advanced. Less civilized. Less valuable.
Language became a ladder. And the colonizer stood at the top.
Across the globe, cultures had their own ways of honoring what was right—not “best,” just right. In Tamil, the Thirukkural teaches dharma: right living in balance with others and nature. In Ubuntu from southern Africa, value is relational: “I am because we are.” In Taoist philosophy, there is no race to the top—only harmony with the Way. In Māori culture, manaakitanga emphasizes generosity, respect, and care—not comparison.
None of these traditions frame value in terms of conquest or superiority. They root goodness in right relationship—with land, with community, with self.
But as English spread—through schools, governments, churches, and global trade—its grammar carried more than rules. It carried ideology. Hierarchy. The assumption that value is measurable and rankable.
Generations learned: To be “just good” is to be invisible. To be content is to risk erasure.
The Body Remembers
This way of thinking doesn’t live only in the mind. It takes up residence in the body.
You feel it in tight chests and restless nights. In perfectionism. In the constant hum of “not quite there.” A nervous system conditioned to always improve cannot feel safe at rest.
Even when we reject these standards outwardly, we enforce them inwardly. We compare our healing, our parenting, our spirituality. We judge whether our joy is “deep enough,” whether our rest is “earned.”
We ask: Am I doing this better than before?
“We become our own colonizers. Our own critics. Our own ladder-makers.”
Quiet Uprisings of Enough
To reclaim “good” is not to abandon growth—but to redefine it.
It is to rediscover the sacredness of sufficiency. To see value in what is present, grounded, and alive.
What does that look like?
- A parent sitting on the floor, fully present—not perfect.
- A meal made with care, not competition.
- A day lived without tallying productivity.
- A body breathing deeply, without performance.
Reclaiming “good” might mean turning down the next promotion. It might mean telling your child, “You are good. You don’t need to earn my love.” It might mean letting joy be messy, letting rest be full.
This is how we rebel: not through louder declarations, but quieter truths.
The Earth’s Logic
Nature does not strive to be the best. It strives to belong.
The tree does not compete with the river. The moon does not try to outshine the sun. Life seeks balance, not dominance. Contribution, not comparison.
In this way, “good” is deeply ecological. It honors cycles. It trusts in enough. It reminds us that blooming is not better than decay—just different. All are essential.
To return to goodness is to return to the rhythm of the earth. Not as climbers of ladders, but as participants in a vast, interwoven life.
Good Is Everything
Let us teach our children that “good” is beautiful.
Let us remind our elders they are still good, even if they no longer produce.
Let us whisper to ourselves, on small days, in quiet hours:
You are good. And that is enough.
Not everything must be better.
Some things must be honored.
Good is not a lesser version of great.
Good is not a step toward best.
Good is a life, rightly lived.
And that is everything.
