It’s official. I’m over it. I’m done with trying to be “perfect”. (Not that I was ever near making it to perfect, anyway).
But I am done with apologizing for my imperfections, my humanness. Done with trying to hide the couple pounds I might have gained, done with trying to keep the house as neat as a pin, done with feeling that I’m not good enough.
It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally learned something. Trying to be perfect is a nasty little straightjacket. It puts a stranglehold on joy, on vibrancy. In thinking about it, and in chatting with some of you, I started wondering, Who are we trying to be perfect for?
In today’s climate, I want mine to be a voice of celebrating imperfection. I stumble, I stutter, and my hair definitely frizzes. I want my children to see me fall down. And get back up. And fall down, and get back up. To see me strive to be my best, but to deepen my acceptance of myself, no matter what.
Some of you are already well on your pathway to greater acceptance, and I admire that immensely. Some of you, like me, are deepening this groove of letting ourselves just be. With less apologies for who we are and with less guilt for satisfying our own needs.
Over the last week, I’ve noticed that just this little mantra, “I’m not perfect and I love it” frees up so much vibrant and healthy energy. I feel more connected to the real me, and more connected to the beloved people in my life. And that is worth so much more to me than the perfect yoga pose.
I’m Not Perfect. And I love it.