Learning the Size of Enough
A journey from a mismatched farm table to a fancy patio set — and what it means to finally know “enough.”
Growing up on a rural farm in Iowa, our family didn’t always have much, but there was always much to be had.
When I visited the homes of my friends, I envied their personal bedrooms and bathrooms. Privacy was a rarity since my family of seven shared just three bedrooms and a single bathroom. On sweltering summer nights, we would drag our sheets and pillows into the only room in the house cooled with a rattling window air-conditioner, dripping condensation down the mildewed vinyl siding outside. Our dining set was simply a fold-out table with not quite enough mismatched chairs for all of us, so we used the piano bench too. After dinner, with nothing but a static-filled public television coming through the TV antenna, we would deal cards across that scratched up table or pass the time outside listening to the St. Louis Cardinal games through my dad’s old shed radio.
And yet, for all the “things” we lacked, our life was so rich.
We could always count on sitting down for a home-cooked meal together – filling up with the farm-raised beef and garden vegetables brought to our table by our own sweat and long days. We never had the flashiest, newest basketball shoes or baseball gloves, but we always had one that would do – and my mom never missed a game in those bleachers. Weekends looked like tractor rides, fireflies, and dad’s Sunday pancakes. Community looked like neighbors coming over to bail hay, kids piling into the truck bed, and every pharmacist, banker, and grocer knowing me by name.
While we rarely had fancy new toys, we had the farm and woods to play in and our imaginations to guide us.
There may not have been much left over for frivolity in our family, but we always had enough. And as I sit here writing this from my fancy, matching patio set with a nice glass of red wine beside me, I couldn’t long for the richness of that handmade, secondhand, patched up, and mismatched life more.
Because at some point, “more” stopped being enough. Instead we are sold the message that contentment can be bought. That happiness is just one more upgrade or swipe of a card away. But when I remember those long farm days that stretched into cicada-filled nights, I know “enough” is simpler than that. It’s not about owning beautiful things or curating a flashy lifestyle – it’s the steady comfort of stability and the strength of community.
I saw this again as I grew older when I began to travel with my husband. We would return home from our time abroad and wonder why we adored the lifestyle there so much more than being back home. Sure, there was novelty in navigating cobblestone streets and stumbling through a language barrier. But I recognized something deeper, too: the same simplicity and contentment I’d known growing up on the farm.
In America, abundance is measured in Target runs and storage units. In Europe, it seemed abundance was a market basket and a park bench. Some of our happiest moments came from simply wandering around a little French village, exchanging a few euros for an apple and baguette. It was such a far cry from the constant onslaught we felt back home – to upgrade to the latest gadget, to buy a nicer car, to chase a life that was bigger than what we needed.
We found comfort in that slower rhythm of life. We felt a richness that couldn’t be measured in bigger square footage or higher price tags. So we sought to build that into our everyday life: agreeing used cars worked fine, packing picnics instead of dining out, and paring down closets until only what we loved remained. We looked for the choices that gave us more memories, more time, and more creativity with what we already had.
And in doing that, we learned that bigger doesn’t always mean better. While I once yearned for a sprawling kitchen to cook in, I’ve fallen in love with my tiny galley-style version and the way I can pivot from stove to sink without a wasted step. Although I still love to admire new fashion trends, I find comfort in resurrecting the same well-loved pieces season after season. And we have built so many more memories walking to the grocery store or farmer’s market than we would have by driving around for errands instead.
I’ve found it’s the small, ordinary textures of a place — the thump of a knife on a cutting board, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the sight of a friend on the front step — that bring richness to our lives. The farm by the river taught me to notice beauty and make do. Traveling abroad reminded me to linger in a square and savor what’s simple. And our small city today offers the kind of community that values learning and creating together more than chasing status.
All together, it has taught me to live well with what we have. To be content, knowing we have enough. And while I may sit here and enjoy my pretty, matching patio set today, I still believe the richest life is the patched up, mismatched one – where you pull up whatever seat (or piano bench) is left. Where nothing is perfect, but it’s surely enough.