We’re always told to be this and that. To smile the right way, speak the right way, show up the right way. Perfectly polished. Perfectly timed. Perfectly done. But perfection has no space here.
Not in this story. Not in this house. Not in this heart. Some of the pressure was taught, some inherited. Some we picked up without knowing it—like a heavy coat handed to us by a well-meaning voice, or worse, by someone who only loved us when we performed. And yet, even knowing it’s not ours to carry, we still try. We still keep that coat on. We call it excellence. We call it being dependable. We call it “doing our best.” But sometimes, it’s just self-erasure in disguise.
I’ve had to learn the difference. Between doing things with heart and doing things to be enough. And they are not the same. So today, when my body aches and the list still calls my name, I remind myself— I don’t need to do it perfectly. Showing up counts. Trying again counts. Resting when I need to counts. There is beauty in imperfection.
Creativity lives in the cracks. Grace floods the moments that didn’t go according to plan. So, I hand back the load of perfection. I give it no more room in my chest. I take my tiny wins and hold them with open hands—because they matter.
And I gently work on the part of me that ever believed I had to be anything more than human to be worthy of peace, progress, or purpose. If you’ve been carrying a weight you were never meant to hold, this is your reminder: you can put it down now.
There’s space for you just as you are.
