I didn’t expect a documentary to leave me wrecked.

But watching The Carters: Hurts to Love You didn’t just tell a story, it held up a mirror. Not just to the life of Aaron Carter, but to all of us living in a world where being enough never seems like…..enough. Where worth is measured in likes, followers, wins, and applause. And where losing (even quietly) often feels like disappearing.

At first, being a Carter looked like a dream. The documentary opens with grainy home videos of five kids tumbling through their childhood, laughing, singing, chasing each other across sunlit lawns. There’s joy in those early moments, a closeness that feels unbreakable. You see them cheering each other on as their family’s stardom begins to rise, fame pushing past the edges of their small-town beginnings. For a while, it seemed like love and talent might be enough to carry them all.

But like so many carefully curated photos we scroll past on social media today, there’s often a side we don’t see.

When the Backstreet Boys were hitting their peak in the ’90s, I was already past my boy band phase. I’d worn out my NKOTB cassette tapes years earlier, memorizing every lyric, every dance move, every moment. But as much as I pretended not to like their music, I still found myself humming along to their songs on the radio and even went so far as to purchase one of their CDs – Backstreet’s Back in 1997.

I wasn’t a die-hard fan, and I never attended any of their concerts but I definitely knew their music and I definitely knew that Nick Carter was going to be a big star.

Then his little brother Aaron hit the music scene.

If I thought I was too old for the Backstreet Boys, I was definitely out of the target demographic for Aaron Carter fans. His music wasn’t really made for someone in their late teens, and I wasn’t exactly lining up to buy his albums. But he was hard to miss. Songs like “I Want Candy” and “Aaron’s Party” were everywhere, on the radio, in commercials, playing at school dances or on kid-focused TV shows. I might not have followed his career closely, but I knew who he was. He was the cute, energetic, little brother of a pop icon, carving out his own place in the spotlight.

Aaron’s life, once bright with promise, unraveled in heartbreaking ways. Beneath the spotlight was a young man grappling with addiction, mental health battles, and the crushing weight of always trying to measure up—especially to his older brother, Nick. The sibling rivalry that once seemed playful became painful, driving a wedge between them that was later made public and raw. His family life, already strained, was further complicated by the financial betrayal of his parents who mismanaged the money he had earned as a child star, leaving him with a deep sense of mistrust and the burden of rebuilding from nothing. Aaron’s pain seemed rooted in a shared environment that praised achievement over emotional safety, and fame over family healing. What the world saw as self-destruction was, in many ways, a person drowning in pain, trying to be seen, trying to matter, and trying to hold onto an identity that had been shaped for him far too early.

Watching Aaron rise so young and struggle so publicly felt like more than just a tragic celebrity story. It tapped into something bigger. In a culture obsessed with winning, it’s not just pop stars who feel the pressure. Whether it’s siblings vying for attention, students chasing top grades, athletes competing for trophies and scholarships, or entire nations locked in political battles, the race to “be the best” defines so much of how we measure success. We celebrate victories, but often forget to ask what it costs to keep winning, or what’s lost when we don’t. And somewhere in that cycle, being enough stops feeling like it’s ever quite enough.

So how do we reshape a culture that constantly tells us our worth is earned through wins, visibility, and applause? How do we begin to value simply being, instead of always achieving?

Maybe it starts with how we choose to show up for ourselves, and each other. With how we talk to kids about their worth, even when they’re not winning. Loving them regardless of a bad grade in school, or striking out at a baseball game. Maybe it’s refusing to buy into whatever the media is trying to shove down our throats about what we need to become better, stronger, faster, or smarter. Because what and who we are now is already worthy of love, of belonging, of being seen without the upgrades, without the filters, and without the constant chase to be more.

Maybe it’s with how we check in on our friends, especially the ones who always seem “fine.” Maybe it’s in choosing to value people not just for what they do, but for who they are. The world teaches us to clap the loudest when someone’s winning, but what if we learned to show up even when they’re not?

Maybe it’s sitting with someone in their sadness, and reminding them that their value doesn’t shrink with a mistake. Maybe it’s telling ourselves that rest is not laziness, and that this insane competition of “who’s the busiest?” only distracts us from the things that actually matter. Maybe it’s learning to celebrate not just the wins, but the effort, the honesty, and the courage it takes just to keep going.

Maybe it’s in these moments that we begin to heal what this world has already fractured.

Maybe enough has always been enough. We just forgot how to believe it.

I didn’t expect this documentary to hit quite so hard.

But maybe that’s the point. The Carters: Hurts to Love You isn’t just about Aaron. It’s about the ways we all hurt, the masks we wear to keep going, the childhood wounds we never name. It’s about trying so hard to be enough for a world that never learned how to love people as they are, and isn’t kind to those still trying to figure themselves out.

It’s about the kids who were told their worth was in what they could do, not who they are.
The ones who smiled on stage while breaking behind the scenes.
The ones still performing, even now. Even us.

And maybe the bravest thing we can do—the most rebellious act in a world obsessed with perfection—is to look at someone in their mess and say, “You’re still loved.”

To look at ourselves and whisper, “You never had to earn it.”

Because life isn’t a finish line.
It’s not a spotlight, or a trophy.
It’s a breath. A bruise. A quiet morning.
It’s showing up, even when no one’s clapping.
It’s holding someone close when they feel unlovable.
It’s letting yourself rest, and knowing that rest isn’t quitting.

It’s not found in being bigger, better, faster, stronger.
It’s found in being. Still here. Still trying.

Because worth was never something we had to earn.
It was never about what we could prove.
It was always a birthright.

And if no one ever told you that before now—
I’m telling you.
You were always enough.

Aaron was too.

We just didn’t ever say it loud enough,
while he was still here to believe it.