I can vividly recall when the title for this book first came to me in the middle of the night in 2013. I was in bed desperately crying out to God during one of the darkest periods of my life and hoping to hear just a whisper of guidance on how to press forward while feeling broken, beaten down, and lost. I felt profoundly alone, and relationally, I was.


Drifting through an arduous season of barren soil and isolation, I continuously grappled with feeling judged and inadequate in my friendships. My ex had just “ghosted” me for the sixth or seventh rotation in a manipulative cycle of committing only to disengage. Financially, I was struggling and found myself working in a negative environment where I was blatantly undervalued. In the wake of all that, years of suppressed trauma and pain climbed to the surface. I was standing in turbid marsh compelling myself to drive one foot in front of the other without sinking below the moss, even though I often wanted to.

At the time, I didn’t give it a name. Even today, I hesitate to qualify that span of my life as depression. I had always naively prided myself on being able to cope with grief, loss, and trauma in a way I thought was healthy, but in reality my coping looked like swallowing my brokenness. I  mastered suppressing my feelings with surprising dexterity, but it’s damn near impossible to ignore your demons when alone in the room with them.

It became increasingly clear that my worth was tied up in everything and everyone outside of myself. What my father, family, friends, and partner thought had the power to completely crush me. And many times, it did. I deeply internalized negative comments from a close friend about my creative worth as well as the criticism family members expressed about the truth in my writing. The words slowed, and writing morphed from a refuge into a source of anxiety.

But the magic and grace of purpose is its lasting imprint on your soul. My intuitive self knows that journeying as a writer and sharing my stories are a large part of why I chose this particular life experience. While I took a break from publicly sharing my writing, the poems and words never ceased wafting through my mind, whispering to begin again.


So when God gave me the title of my first book, I listened with fear and trepidation, but a receptive ear. I didn't know it would take 5 years to birth. I had no idea it would be the dawn of a new narrative and the death of an old one. I would be pushed to become and unbecome.

The path to BECOMING ENOUGH, both the book and the internal work, has not been easy. The work to unpack the pain often felt monumental. The cost of healing was high and the discomfort would tempt me to quit several times. I knew I had become a willing participant in my disempowerment and in order to move forward, I would have to dismantle the altar I built to external validation. Believing that I am possible and knowing that I am enough has taken years of shedding false beliefs, burning illusive identities to the ground, and intentionally choosing my voice.

I am so proud of this body of work. I am so proud that I pushed through my doubts and fears to birth such a vulnerable + freeing project. It has loved me back to worth. This is a lifelong dream manifested and it fills my whole heart to finally hold these words in my hand. I am incredibly grateful to everyone who gives my book a home in yours.


Ajolique JudeComment
Empowered Choice: Repossessing My Body

As a girl and a woman, my body has been abused and weaponized. I learned to hate it, disguise it, and cover it under a tarp of shame. Women and men have reduced me to just an agreeable face as a means to excise any modicum of self-esteem I managed to scrape together. I have been accused of being a temptress, not for the sake of intentionally tempting, but rather because men cannot curb their own salacious desires and confine their eyes to the woman they wed.

For kinship and friendship, I have shrunk and shriveled. I let my care slack and stopped adorning my temple in appreciation. Instead, I opted to fade like an apparition in an unlovely desert. I simpered to the background with an obedience my soul will no longer oblige.

I think the world enjoys when a woman collapses into herself like a worn, leather bag shoved to the floor. There is whispered delight when a woman slides down the dimmer switch to her inner light, and even better if they can do it for her. But we must not yield quietly.

I am making the empowered choice to repossess my body and bask in all its lumens. I now understand I was not created to organize my body and beauty into a form that is easily digestible for others.

The journey to loving myself calls for full acceptance of the form I was born into almost 30 years ago, not just the parts that people don’t ask me to apologize for. The whole of me is deserving of celebration and adornment. 

Now I find myself pausing in the mirror more and smiling as I fall in love with what I see again. My large, eager eyes tell stories each time the curtain lifts. My broad nose, which I have often yearned to sculpt with a blade, sustains my breath. My asymmetrical lips may lean to one side a bit, but they were kind when my voice was just a whisper. I know now that sensuality is not a curse, but a gift of femininity. So I praise the spread of my hips and encourage their soft sway.

I love my being, and that is more than enough.


Allowing + Releasing Fear: I Have a Mutation in the ATM Gene

I had one hand on the mouse and my other palm and fingers pressed tense into the wood composite surface of my desk. With the weight of a steady gallop, my heart leapt in my throat, snuffing out any chance of a whisper or exclamation. All I could manage was a gasp— soft, but reverberating off the panels of my work cube swaying my torso in the chair. The screen in front of me kept shifting in and out of focus and the sound of my coworkers’ chatter was replaced with a low rumbling, the kind you hear when you yawn or forget to unclench your jaw.

My body had become so tense, I thought the murmur of my tear ducts opening was actually audible. And what did it sound like? It was singeing salt come to wash the glint from my eye as I reviewed the content of the pages in front of me. Within the contents of the grave red box: HIGH RISK: FEMALE BREAST CANCER.

There is a paralyzing tide that rushes in when one of your fears comes to greet you. To some degree, it was expected. I knew it was always there, this possibility that my genetic makeup held a secret about my future health and mortality. But I had often hoped my mother’s cancer diagnosis was just an unexplainable tragedy with no link to a foreshadowing. I had often brushed off the troubled look situated on doctors’ faces when I shared I was 9 months old and my mother was just 31 when cancer was discovered in her breasts.

My blood could not disguise the truth scripted in my DNA. In my mother’s DNA. We shared a mutation in the ATM gene. The gene that repairs damaged DNA, controls the rate at which our cells divide, and subdues tumors. A mutation in this gene is associated with a lifetime breast cancer risk of 17 - 52%.

I didn’t receive this information in the safety of a clinical space seated across from a doctor relaying the results in a fixed, steady voice.  I was in the office trying to parse through a 9-page document filled with scientific words that are mostly foreign to me and hoping no one would walk over to my desk while my eyes were still wet. The same questions looped in my mind and out my mouth. What now? What does this mean? How do I prevent this from happening to me? How do I trust my body now?

I have worked hard to be a woman strongly grounded in my faith and trust in the benevolence of the Universe. I am one who believes that all things truly are working for me, and not to me. The things I experience are here to serve me, grow me, and stretch me. But if I’m being honest, I did not feel that benevolence in this moment, and for many days after. I felt overcome by fear and anxiety. Stories played out in my mind of all the ways my body could betray me— tomorrow, in a year, in 10 years.

I found myself recalling how the kids in my elementary school whispered that I had given my mother breast cancer. That it was me. That it was my fault she died. And immediately, I found myself on Google researching the connection between breast cancer and pregnancy and childbirth. When I’m ready to start a family, could the fluctuation of hormones destabilize my body and trigger a cancerous growth? Is that what happened to my mother? I know it is unhealthy to go down this thought path, but my mind wants to make connections and links. My mind wants to assess my personal risk and find ways to control that risk. To find the ticking time bombs that lie dormant and disarm them before they can detonate in my body.

Isn’t it unnerving how skilled fear is at going back in time to gather all our hurt and bring them right back to the present moment? Each wounded player fighting for a spotlight on the stage, to be heard, to be acknowledged, to be weighed before being cut from the scene. So I have given my fears the stage and I permit myself to feel it all. To allow it all. To write it all.

The most powerful lesson I have learned in my study of emotional awareness is that the best way to cope with our emotions is to allow them loving presence, free of judgment. The more we create resistance to our fear, our shame, our anger, our sadness— the longer they linger within us and begin to form negative internal dialogue and stories. That stress and anxiety, when unchecked, can birth illness in the body. And that’s not what I want.

I have allowed fear its moment on the stage and can now send it off. I release it and choose to focus on living my healthiest and best life no matter what comes. I know there will continue to be moments when I feel fear as I navigate my journey, but I will allow it space… and release.