My Perfectionist Confession

My last post was on April 20th of this year.

Every time I go to view my blog, I cringe at what I see. The pictures, the content. It’s just not…right. What I mean is, it’s not perfect.

I have a long list of things I want to share, but I wonder: does it matter? Should I share the things I have to say? Even now, as I write this, I can’t help but hit the backspace button more than the letters. For all intents and purposes, these words are what I mean to say. But they aren’t as eloquent as I would like them to be. So, what’s the point of even writing at all?

This is why I haven’t posted since April 20th. This is why, for awhile, I rarely posted on Instagram. And why I still archive posts when they don’t fit into my feed’s aesthetic. It’s why I’ve given up on writing my book for now.

The thing is, life isn’t perfect. I journaled tonight, and I tried something new. As I sketched and drew, I nearly threw the paper away with the other ten scrapped pages. But then I continued. I got creative, I let myself make the mistakes I knew I would make. And when I finished, I looked at the whole picture. You know what I saw?


Perfection isn’t in the details. It’s in the canvas as a whole. It’s in the collective moments that give us an experience.

Life is a series of events, of interactions and seconds and minutes and hours. It’s a collection of memories that we scrutinize and criticize. We look back, wondering what we could have done better, when the reality is there are no do-overs. If we constantly look back, we will never move forward. And if we strive only for perfection in the moment, we will never reach our full potential. Instead, we get caught up in the regrets, in the frustration. 

I don’t think I will ever let go of my need for perfection, but maybe letting go isn’t the answer. Maybe the answer is redefining what perfection is.

There are thousands upon thousands of blogs out there with perfect photos and perfect people and perfect clothes. I will never be on that level, reach that standard. This is something I’ve come to accept. 

Instead, perhaps a shift in mind, in redconsidering that ideal. It’s the collection of words that make a masterpiece, not the sentences on their own. It’s the brushtrokes painted, the music and the lyrics together. 

Maybe my perfection isn’t to put together that viral post that touches millions of people. Maybe it’s these words, coming from these hands and this heart. Maybe it’s this vision. Maybe, just maybe, the perfection is already there. 

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