Key Moves Before Committing That Will Help You Overcome 'Not Being Enough'

The generator hummed loudly in the small sitting room of the two-bedroom flat in Surulere, Lagos. It was one of those sticky April evenings when NEPA had taken the light again, and the heat pressed against everyone like an unwelcome visitor who refused to leave. Mama sat on the faded green couch, fanning herself with an old church bulletin, her wrapper tied loosely around her waist. Her son, Chinedu, 29, paced near the window, phone in hand, scrolling through messages that made his face tighten.

“Chinedu, sit down before you wear out my carpet,” Mama said softly, but her eyes were sharp. She knew that look. It was the same one his father used to wear when bills piled up and dreams felt too heavy.

His younger sister, Adaora, 24, was curled up on the floor mat, braiding her hair while pretending not to listen. Their father, Papa, had just come in from the evening traffic, his shirt damp with sweat from the danfo ride. He dropped his bag and sighed, the sound carrying the weight of another long day at the bank where promotions had passed him by for five years running.

“I don’t know, Mama,” Chinedu finally said, voice cracking just a little. “Ngozi wants more. She deserves more. How can I marry her when I’m still hustling with this small coding gig and the Uber in the evenings? Her friends are posting Dubai trips and soft life. Me? I’m calculating fuel money and school fees for children we don’t even have yet.”

The room went quiet except for the generator’s roar. This wasn’t just about Chinedu and Ngozi. It was about the quiet fear that settles in homes; The sense that you, as you are right now, might never be enough for the person you love. Not because love has disappeared, but because life keeps moving the goalposts. Rising food prices that turn garri into a luxury some weeks.

Chinedu had met Ngozi during NYSC in Enugu. She was the bright, ambitious corper with plans to build a digital marketing agency. He was the quiet one who could fix any software bug but struggled to fix his own confidence. Three years later, the love was still there as deep, stubborn, real but the doubts had grown like weeds in harmattan. Every time her salary increased or a friend got engaged to a man with a “stable” job abroad, Chinedu felt smaller. Not enough money. Not enough status. Not enough certainty in this uncertain economy.

Mama had watched this dance before. With her own sister years ago. With neighbours. With herself in the early days of marriage when Papa’s business folded during fuel subsidy removal and they ate beans without oil for weeks. “Not being enough” wasn’t new. But in this generation, it carried different teeth.

Adaora, the sister, felt it when she overheard Chinedu arguing on the phone late at night. She started questioning her own boyfriend, a young teacher whose salary disappeared before mid-month. “If Bro Chinedu cannot manage, how will I?” she thought. The fear made her distant, picking fights over small things. Papa carried it too. As the man of the house, he saw his son’s struggle as a reflection on his own provisions. Some evenings he sat outside, staring at nothing, wondering if the prayers in church were enough or if he had failed to teach his children how to navigate this new Nigeria where side hustles outnumbered main jobs.

Even the extended family felt the ripples. Aunty Ifeoma in the village called every Sunday: “Hope Chinedu is serious with that girl? We cannot be carrying shame oh.” The pressure wasn’t just financial; it was emotional, cultural, spiritual. In African homes, your commitment isn’t just yours. It belongs to the lineage. When you feel inadequate, the whole family starts walking with a limp.

Ngozi had her own side. In her mother’s house in Ikeja, she cried quietly sometimes. She loved Chinedu’s heart, his late-night prayers, the way he remembered how she liked her tea. But she also carried the fear of becoming her mother — strong, resilient, but exhausted from carrying too much alone. “I don’t want to struggle forever,” she told her best friend once.

For the young men like Chinedu, it breeds quiet shame. The provider script runs deep. Unemployment or underemployment doesn’t just empty pockets; it empties identity. They withdraw, become short-tempered, scroll Instagram comparing their Chapter 1 to someone else’s Chapter 20. For young women, it can plant seeds of resentment or anxiety — wondering if love means settling or if they’re asking for too much by wanting basic security.

But there are moves — realistic, family-centred moves that can shift this before commitment hardens into regret.

First, have the honest, sometimes painful conversations early. Not the romantic ones under moonlight, but the raw ones. Chinedu eventually sat with Ngozi at a small buka near her office. He told her about the fear, not as an excuse but as truth. She shared hers too. They listed what they could control: combined budgets, skill upgrades, prayer points that felt practical. The conversation hurt, but it also freed something.

Second, separate identity from current bank balance. In African reality, value has always been more than money. Chinedu started reminding himself of what he brought: loyalty, problem-solving mind, the way he made his mother laugh after tough days. Families can help by celebrating small wins openly — a new client, a child’s good result, surviving another month of inflation. Papa began doing this, praising Chinedu’s discipline in front of Adaora. It changed the air in the house.

Third, build together instead of waiting to be “ready.” Many couples now start small joint projects: a small poultry in the village, content creation around shared skills, or simply a shared savings jar for specific dreams. The act of building rebuilds confidence. Ngozi and Chinedu began reviewing online courses together in the evenings. Some nights they laughed at failed attempts. The laughter mattered.

Fourth, involve wise family voices without surrendering your decision. Mama’s quiet advice helped: “My son, enough is not the absence of lack. It is the presence of commitment and growth.” Not preachy, just true. Extended family can offer accountability, shared resources, or even emotional shelter when doubts hit hard.

Fifth, protect the relationship from outside noise. They set rules: limited couple social media time, fasting from comparison accounts, regular unplugged evenings. They visited Ngozi’s mother together, not to perform but to show unity. These small disciplines create space for love to breathe.

None of this erases the struggle. Fuel prices will still rise. School fees will still come. But they stop waiting to feel enough and start becoming enough through deliberate choices.

Years later, Chinedu and Ngozi would sit in their own small sitting room, though still with occasional power supply wahala, still calculating costs but with two children running around and a different kind of peace. Not because everything became easy. But because they chose to see each other’s current selves as worthy of commitment, worthy of growth, worthy of building something real amid the uncertainty.

In the end, overcoming “not being enough” isn’t about suddenly having all the answers or all the money. It’s about refusing to let fear write the end of your family story. It’s about looking at your partner across the worn couch, generator humming, children’s laughter or siblings’ teasing in the background, and saying with your actions: “I see you. I choose you. We will become, together.”