Growing up, I was told many times by many people that I was “perfect”. I had straight As, I was obedient, and I did whatever I could to maintain that title (#fastesthandraise). I read encyclopedias for fun and took notes while watching tv (ask my mom). I was basically the Hermione Granger of the muggle world.
I still love the part of me that enjoys learning and is determined to succeed, but it saddens me to see how much and how negatively perfection has impacted me.
Perfect has held me back from asking questions for fear that I would look unintelligent.
It has refrained me from asking for help for fear that I would look weak.
It has placed enormous amounts of pressure on me for fear of failure.
It has whispered in my ear to hide the deepest parts of me to avoid judgement.
It has caused me to loathe my body by reminding me of society’s ideals.
It has robbed me of years of self-love and self-care.
It has pushed me to end my life.
It has made me feel unworthy.
Perfection kills. It limits. It censors.
Some say that we are all perfect because flaws do not exist. Perhaps… but in my opinion, I do have flaws. I have things that are harder to love about myself and that’s okay. Why can’t we stop there? Why must we strive so hard for something no one can specifically define. Think about it, what does perfection look like, objectively? Can you draw it?
I’d bet each one of us would draw a different picture. We all have our views shaped by our own experiences, so why do we allow this imaginary concept to control our lives? Why can’t we be content with the ordinary? The average? The just okay? Why can’t that be enough?
Why can’t we be enough, just the way we are?
Photo credits: Saijal Suri (@saijestudio)