I am imperfect. I write those words, and immediately, I’m struck by how vulnerable I feel. It’s not that I’m a perfectionist, okay, maybe I am, but I have trouble acknowledging that I will make mistakes.
Am I alone in this?
I want to be right. I want to say the right things, love the ‘right’ people, make the right choices. I don’t want to fall down, be judged, be a bad person. I don’t want people to see the messy parts of me, have them stuck to me like a sticker on my chest.
I don’t want to be defined by what I am or am not doing.
But I want to be as close to perfect as possible. Is that wrong?
Is it wrong to want to be the best example? The best mother, sister, daughter, friend? Is it bad that sometimes I find my worth in others, even though I know I shouldn’t? Is it bad that, no matter how I try to close my eyes and drown out others’ voices, I still hear them alongside my own?
I am imperfect. I’m still teaching myself that. I’m still teaching myself it’s okay to say those words aloud and believe them, know them, identify with them. Accept them.
Sometimes, I have this ridiculous idea that I need to ‘people-please,’ to fill the giant-sized shoes of this ‘ideal’ I’ve created in my own mind. But I don’t want to appear so perfect that I’m untouchable.
I don’t want to appear flawless, but I don’t want someone to look at me and see all the ways I don’t measure up.
And maybe that’s why I write about this topic so much: perfection, belonging, finding yourself. Maybe it’s because I always find myself getting dizzy, trying to understand who I am and where I fit, even when the parts of me are bruised or out of place. Maybe I’m just hoping that someone else is reading these words, nodding their head, understanding that we are both in the same place – floating, learning, gasping for air.
And it’s okay. It’s okay.
Featured Image Credit: Kinga Cichewicz