As I write this, I'm looking at my mirror: curls pinned, brown skin, almond-eyes, the "sparkle" my mom swears is there, and I cry. And not Hollywood "pretty cry" but ugly, deep, guttural, cry.

Why do we often feel we aren't good enough?

As much as I tried to fight it, it took over. While I didn't subscribe to European beauty standards, I subscribed to standards that were not my own.

I'm staring 30 in the barrel and still battling that. Are my breasts big enough? Are they too big? Is my butt high enough? Is it too wide for my height? Is my face too round? Where are my cheekbones? Don't get me started on my thighs.

I never feel like I'm good enough. Sadly, I'm a perfectionist. As Beyoncé is asking me, "Are you happy with yourself?" I can't help but to second guess my answer. There's still so much I need to do. So many people I need to become.

I have to be everyone for everyone. I have to be wife, Director, friend, daughter, confidant, sister, when do I get to be Monica? Who will allow that?

I'm trying to face myself.

"My aspiration in life would be...to be happy."