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“Perfect” to them is not what “perfect” is to us.

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“I find so much freedom in just being myself.”

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Listen. Mistakes happen. But you are not one of them. 

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Appearances still mean everything. But the appearances we project to the world are not real.

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I have always prided myself on my ability to hide how I’m feeling.

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I’m a recovering perfectionist. That’s not to say that I was ever particularly good at the things I was doing. In truth, I am a shitty perfectionist and you won’t find any evidence of my obsession in my work.

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My truth, like so many of yours, is messy and full of flaws. My truth is a big cluster fuck of ugly, messy, beautiful experiences that have lead me to this exact point I’m at today.

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At its core, it’s a progress killer. Anything that you’ve ever wanted to do? Forget it. Any progress you’ve wanted to make? Not a chance. It will stop you in your tracks and send you running before you’ve ever had a chance to savor your curiosities.

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Sometimes it’s easier to stay in a bad situation that you understand than to take a chance on a brand new one.

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It’s a vicious cycle, one that rewards harmful words with external achievement. This is neither healthy nor fulfilling. It coerces you into believing your worth is directly correlated to how good you are at A or how many awards you won for B.