I am imperfect.
I write that, and I’m immediately struck by how vulnerable that sentence makes me feel. It’s not that I’m a perfectionist, at least I don’t think I am, but it’s acknowledging the fact that I’m not going to do the right thing all the time, and that’s scary.
I want to be right. I want to make the right decisions, follow the right path, say the right things, and not hurt anyone in the process. I don’t want to mess up. I don’t want to be a bad person. I don’t want to tip-toe through life, shy and afraid, but I don’t want to make so many painful mistakes that I start to hate who I am.
I want to be as close to perfect as possible.
And maybe that’s the childish part of me, the part that’s always tried to impress my parents and those around me, or fill the giant-sized shoes of the ideal person I created in my own mind. I’ve never wanted to perfectly toe the line, but I never wanted to be too far outside of it either.
I never wanted people to think I was flawless, but I didn’t want someone to look at me and see all the ways I didn’t measure up.
And maybe that’s why I love writing so much. Because in writing, the way you see yourself changes. You write things that maybe you wouldn’t say. You look at yourself through a mirror, through a magnifying glass, through a microscope and you pick through all the things about yourself that maybe most of the time you try to hide.
I find myself writing about my heart, writing about the way I love, writing about how I’m stubborn and independent and selfish. And maybe I write those things, but I don’t really acknowledge that those things make me imperfect, and that it’s okay to be imperfect.
It’s okay to be imperfect.
Maybe I need a reminder of that; maybe we all need a reminder of that.
Read more of my unedited thoughts –> [HERE.]