Man, that’s hard to live up to. That idea that if it’s not perfect, it’s not right. If I know I can’t do something perfect, that it’s not even worth doing.
It’s not a fear of failure, it’s a fear of being imperfect.
My life has consisted of hiding behind things so that I didn’t have to show my imperfections. Putting on a smile and showing up perfectly dressed, with perfectly coiffed hair.
But perfection is hard to maintain even when it’s an illusion. It falls apart and everything is laid bare.
I’m not perfect and for a long time I wasn’t okay with that.
But I didn’t draw the line there. I expected my husband to be perfect. For my kids to be perfect. But they’re not. They make mistakes. My husband forgets to put gas in the car and my kids spill milk and dirty their school clothes before we even leave the house.
Ephiphanies are a rarity for me. Usually I have to search for answers to the enigmas that plague me. But this one has come from watching things fall apart around me, from seeing the struggles of people I care about and realizing that they’re not perfect. Nor am I and that’s okay.
Finally, that’s okay.