Perfectly Imperfect
Ever wonder why we insist on banging our heads against an invisible wall of perfection? The Cambridge dictionary tells us that “perfect” means: “complete and correct in every way, of the best possible type with or without fault.” Do you know anyone like that? I certainly don’t see anyone like that in the mirror.
But, I’m pretty sure the perfect person only exists in our imagination, and even then, I’d hazard a guess that they look wildly different from person to person. In that case, why do we drive ourselves crazy by continuing to chase after the unattainable?
Let’s start with my idea of perfect. In truth, it’s shifted over the years. In my twenties, I thought perfection meant keeping up appearances. I remember spending hours trying to craft the perfect image—stylish outfits, a well-rehearsed social routine, and just the right balance of career ambition. But underneath it all, I was constantly exhausted. Every social event felt like a performance, and any small misstep left me feeling like a failure. I was living in a mental state where the bar kept rising. I could never truly rest. Looking back, I realize I was chasing an illusion.
After marriage and kids, a perfect life started to mean a good night’s sleep, equal parenting responsibilities, and a little less financial stress. I traded high heels for sneakers and social outings for family movie nights. Suddenly, perfection wasn’t about looking polished, it was about surviving the chaos of life with young children. If I could squeeze in a good night’s sleep, manage a grocery run without forgetting the milk, and avoid stepping on a LEGO piece, I felt victorious. Yet, even then, I found myself longing for the elusive “perfect balance.” You know, the one where work, family, self-care, and social life all align seamlessly? Spoiler alert: it doesn’t exist.
These days, perfection looks a lot different. Maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s the countless lessons life has thrown my way, but I’ve started to see perfection as something less tangible. It’s not about flawless skin, impeccable manners, or a sparkling career—it’s about peace. It’s about accepting where I am and who I am. It’s about understanding that I’m a work in progress, and that’s okay. Actually, more than okay—that’s life. I sometimes joke that I’ll only achieve “perfection” when I’m dead because that’s when my personal evolution will be complete!
Since there’s really no universal interpretation of perfect . . . perhaps that word should disappear entirely. What if everything that we’ve been taught to consider as imperfect, flawed, or less-than is just normal . . . meant to be? Maybe these ideals that are most certainly social constructs are simply meant to keep everyone in their place, to keep us struggling, perpetually running on a hamster wheel.
As a perfectionist (former, I’d like to think), I created unnecessary stress and anxiety for myself trying to fit the mold, be the best, and hide my perceived flaws. Looking back, I realize that all those sleepless nights, self-doubt spirals, and frantic efforts to be “perfect” weren’t helping me grow; they were holding me back. I wasn’t learning to be better, kinder, or more fulfilled. I was just learning to play the game. And now I envy the people who likely drove me crazy before—the carefree, easy-going, laid-back personalities. What if they’re not lazy, as I may have muttered to myself in the past, but humans who’ve figured it out? By “it,” I mean life.
These days, I try to take a page out of their book. Instead of racing toward some unattainable version of perfection, I’m learning to slow down and embrace the imperfection. It’s liberating, really. Sure, the kitchen might be a mess, and the to-do list might be long, but I’m trying to prioritize the things that matter most—the laughter, the quiet moments, the simple joys that come with living.
Because if we’re always getting our underwear in a bunch by constantly striving for perfection, do we have enough energy to enjoy the beauty that each day offers? If we’re too busy polishing our image, will we notice the small miracles happening all around us? The smell of fresh coffee in the morning, the caress of the wind in our hair, the sound of children’s laughter—those are the moments that make life complete.
Maybe perfection was never the goal. Maybe it’s the imperfections, the little quirks and flaws, that make us human, that make life interesting. What if, instead of striving to be flawless, we focused on being present? What if we embraced the messiness of life and allowed ourselves to just be, flaws and all?
