I am enough.

A jug gets filled to a line. A bag of cement covers the floor it was bought for. Sufficiency, everywhere else in life, is measured against some external mark.

Most of the marks people hold themselves against were borrowed from somebody else — an older sibling, a colleague two years ahead, a version of yourself from a better week.

The claim here is that the measuring can stop. Not that you have finally reached the line, but that there was no line, and nothing outstanding you have to make up before the day is allowed to begin.