I’m not a perfect girl. In fact, I’m far from it. My hair is often frizzy, and sometimes thrown up in a last minute unromantic ponytail. My face often has zits and bumps along my jawline, and my eyes generally have faded dark bags under them from lack of sleep.
My body is far from perfect. A while ago, I tried to make it perfect. I ran the miles, and lost the weight, yet I still didn’t feel “perfect.” My rib cage didn’t magically shrink and my hips didn’t grow. I didn’t take on an hourglass shape; I just looked little. I took up less space. I’m still imperfect now. My stomach is soft and squishy. There is no six pack or definition, there are no lines of perfection.
My arms and legs are most definitely not creamy. My legs are covered with bruises from God knows what, and freckles are scattered across my light arms. My shoulders and knees are bony rather than round, and I have a birthmark on my right hip and a scar on my arm.
I am not a perfect girl. I’m far from it. I’m usually five minutes, if not 10, late. I’m forgetful, and always have to turn the car around to go back home and pick up the friend’s birthday gift I intentionally set by the door (so I wouldn’t forget).
I have ADHD, and my mind wanders all over the place at literally a million miles a minute. Sometimes I zone out of reality and get lost in my own thoughts.
I’m not perfect. I try to be optimistic as much as possible, but sometimes the glass feels half empty rather than half full.
I’m indecisive, and never seem to know what I want. I’m quirky and have a sense of humor that not everyone gets. Im both introverted and extroverted, and I have a tendency to be shy, especially when I’m around new people.
I’m really sensitive, and often wear my heart on my sleeve. I tear up during movies, and I cried my eyes out when my hamster died. I don’t do well with rejection, as I always take it way too personally, and I never quite know when it’s time to let go of people.
I’m not perfect. I’m not even close to being perfect.
But you know what? I’m perfectly content with being the imperfect girl that I am. I don’t want to be perfect anymore because what fun would that be?
The bruises on my legs are signs that I’m adventurous and that I’m living my life. The rolls of my soft stomach show that I am taking care of my body gently, and lovingly, rather than pushing it past its limits. My freckles darken in the sunshine and give me a natural sun-kissed glow, keeping me grounded to the earth.
My humor might be quirky and weird, but I would think that at least some people out there might call it cute. I’m soft spoken at times, and I hope it helps me to have a kinder and more patient heart. My quietness allows me to think through my thoughts more thoughtfully before sharing them.
My sensitivity is a reflection of my big heart. Because I am sensitive, I am capable of big love. I care about my friends so very much, and my family is my everything. When I love, I love fully.
I’m not a perfect girl, but I don’t want to be. I want to be abstract and bold, and soft and colorful. I want to be kind and compassionate, and vulnerable and brave. I want to have the courage to color outside the lines, and I want to love with my whole heart, as much as I possibly can. I want to care about other people. I want other people to care about me. I want to be real and honest, and nurturing and strong. And most of all, as simple as it may seem, I just want to be be good. I want to be a good human being.
I’m not a perfect girl. I’m a work of imperfections. But I’m okay with this. I just want to be good. I want to be decent. I want to be my own kind of beautiful, and I want my beauty to be created by my birthmark, my freckles, my stretch marks, and my soft rolls. I’m far from perfect, but in most ways, I think it’s kind of perfect to be imperfect.I think it’s kind of perfect to simply be good.