Why I Have Never Felt Like I Am Enough

Before my son was born, I started writing him a book.

It's a guide on how to be a man. In case I die before he's old enough to know me. I want him to have something—my thoughts, my lessons, the things I wished someone had told me.

The first lesson was the most important. The thing I wanted him to feel before anything else:

You are unconditionally loved.

I wrote about how before he was even conceived, Beth and I changed our lives for him. We ate healthier. We focused on mindfulness. We prepared our bodies and minds to receive him. He was loved before he existed.

I wrote about how he came from stardust. How the trees and the wind and the earth are all connected—and he is part of that connection. The universe itself loves him. Not for what he does. For what he is.

That was the lesson. The foundation. Everything else would build on that.

Then he was born.

Thirty-six hours of labor. Traumatic. Beth pushed through hell to bring him into the world.

When they finally placed him on her chest, I waited for the feeling. The bliss. The overwhelming rush of love that everyone talks about.

It didn't come.

I felt exhaustion. Relief that it was over. And something I didn't expect—resentment, even. For what he had put Beth through.

I looked at this tiny human and felt tired.

In the days that followed, I thought about the book I'd been writing. The chapter about unconditional love. And I thought: I have to scrap it.

How could I teach my son he's unconditionally loved when I didn't feel it for him?

There is a voice that has followed me my entire life.

You are not enough.

It follows my basketball. I struggle to watch my own games because I hate the way I move. It follows my writing. Every article I post, I immediately hate. It follows my relationships. A small part of me is always scared that Beth doesn't love me as much as I love her.

Some days the voice is loud. Some days it's quiet. But it's always there.

I've achieved everything I dreamed of. NBL champion. Olympics. NBA. I have a wife I love, a son, a life I built and am proud of. And still, most days, the voice whispers: not enough.

I've tried to quiet it. Gratitude practice. Mindfulness. Being kind to others so I can be kinder to myself. But these have always felt like band aids. They help me manage the voice. They don't touch the root.

Becoming a dad made me look closer.

Underneath the voice is a belief I've carried so long I forgot it was a belief:

I am only loved when I provide value.

I don't know exactly when I learned this. But I can see how life kept teaching it.

Growing up, I was praised when I performed well on the court. I saw the smiles on my parents' faces when I scored. When I vacuumed the house before school, I was rewarded. When I would shut up in class, I got gold stars to put on my shirt. The lesson was clear: provide value, receive love.

When I was a teenager, I was in a relationship. Things got hard. I was struggling with my own happiness. She told me she missed the old Jack—the happy one, the positive one, the one who lifted her up. A month later, she left.

The belief was confirmed. When I stopped providing value, I was left.

I stepped into professional basketball. The economics are brutal and simple. The moment you stop providing value, you're gone. I was fired from the Adelaide 36ers. Then as I improved, I was rewarded for scoring, for winning, for performing. The pattern kept reinforcing itself.

Capitalism itself runs on this logic. Value exchanged for value. The whole system agrees with the belief.

So the story I told myself became: I will be loved if I provide value.

The belief isn't all bad. It drives me.

It motivates me to work hard, to learn, to grow. It makes me show up for Beth, for Oaklynn, for my teammates. It makes me race home to do the washing and give energy to everyone I interact with.

The belief makes me useful. Valuable. And therefore—I assume—loved.

But the fuel underneath is fear.

Fear that if I stop providing, I'll be left. Fear that without value, I'm nothing. Fear that Beth only loves me because of what I bring—and if I ever stopped bringing it, she'd be gone.

This fear exhausts me. Massive energy dips. The desire to escape into video games or social media. The inability to truly rest, because rest means I'm not providing, and not providing means I'm not safe.

And the deepest cost: I can't receive love.

Beth tells me she loves me. I know she means it. But I don't always feel it. I live in fear that her love is conditional—that it's really for the value I bring, not for me.

To actually believe her—to believe that I am loved just as I am—would bring me so much peace. It would release so much weight.

But my belief won't let me.

The first seven weeks weren't what I expected. Not gummy smiles and peaceful chest naps. They were sleepless nights. Crying. Nappy changes. Chaos. Shared exhaustion between Beth and me.

Oaklynn wasn't providing value. He was taking everything. Every ounce of energy, patience, and sleep we had.

And I was there anyway.

I held him. I stayed up. I sacrificed basketball and rest and peace—not because he earned it, but because he's mine. Because he exists.

Slowly, without noticing at first, I fell in love with him.

Not in the lightning bolt I expected. Not in the overwhelming rush of bliss. But in the showing up. In the being there when it was hard. In the small moments—his new noises, his arms above his head while he sleeps, his intense fascination with the ceiling fans.

I realized something: I do love him unconditionally.

It just doesn't look like I thought it would.

I've tested this with Beth too.

I asked myself: if she got sick—really sick—and couldn't do anything for me, would I stay?

Yes. Without hesitation.

If she couldn't play me in Uno or support me emotionally—if all she could do was exist—would I still love her?

Yes. Completely.

I don't love her for what she provides. I love her.

And if I can love that way—if I can give unconditional love, even when it doesn't feel like a lightning bolt—then maybe unconditional love is real.

Maybe I just didn't recognize it because I was looking for the wrong thing.

I don't have this figured out. I'm not entirely sure I believe it myself.

But I am starting to see it through a different lens.

Maybe being enough isn't something you earn. Maybe it's something you already are.

I'm learning to show up for myself the way I show up for Oaklynn and Beth. Not because I've provided enough value that day. Not because I've earned the right to rest.

Just because I exist.

That's the practice now. Just being. And slowly, letting that be enough.

I've decided not to scrap the first chapter for Oaklynn. I'm just learning it alongside him.