Imperfect

The word ‘perfection’ makes me want to hurl. I hate the way people are encouraged to be flawless. I detest the way, I myself am crazy behind the idea of appearing perfect. I can’t let myself be vulnerable in front of people. I can’t let others see the scars that lie underneath. I find myself incapable of letting people see into my soul. For if they do, they shall see that there’s nothing so perfect inside.

I wish that all of us didn’t have to strive to make ourselves appear so sorted out with nothing in life left to figure out — with none of us lost or with our minds messed up. I wish imperfection was considered beautiful by everyone, not just a handful of people. And I wish all of us genuinely showed off our scars and not just the best parts of our selves.

“I wish imperfection was considered beautiful by everyone, not just a handful of people. And I wish all of us genuinely showed off our scars and not just the best parts of our selves.”

If that would be the case, nobody would have self-esteem issues. Nobody would be under confident or struggling with anxiety. We wouldn’t have to convince ourselves with the thought that nobody is actually perfect. We would just know that. We would be able to see everyone for who they really were, not for the fake people all of us pretend to be.

I don’t just want to preach all of this to everyone else, I myself want to change and become braver. Brave enough to be imperfect. Brave enough to let everyone see every single scar that has ever harmed enough. And brave enough to tell the story behind each of those scars with the utmost pride.