My Shooting Star

Perfection, does not exist. That’s what they say, anyway. Perfection. Does. Not. Exist. One last time because I think it bears repeating — perfection, does not exist.

Had you asked me if I thought myself a perfectionist a few months ago, I probably would have laughed. Me? Perfect? Only in your dreams, hun.

I’d been working for years, rather unintentionally to be honest, on mastering the art of imperfection. At least, I thought I had. With thoughts of solitude and isolation consuming my thoughts for the past few weeks, I decided to lean a little more into the silence. I’ve let my creativity run rampant through my sketchbooks, my notepads, and the occasional at home workout.

One project, in particular, has managed to capture my heart, my mind, my soul. A little something to help me weather the storm and it’s been an equally liberating and paralyzing experience. I’ve started pushing myself to limits I hadn’t known existed, and learning things I didn’t know needed learning.

It’s helped me discover, that I am a bit of a perfectionist but not in the ways you’d think. I’ve named it — selective perfectionism. Life taught me, long ago, that I will never be perfect and I have happily spent my formative years falling in love with the idea of imperfection. Until this project.

If I’m being honest, and I might as well be, I’m scared. No. Truthfully, I’m terrified. Terrified of swimming in an ocean of utter authenticity, only to come up for air and discover that it’s just me. Scared of digging deeper into sincerity, amidst the isolation — only to leave these walls, feeling more isolated than I ever have before.

It’s when those thoughts creep in that I realize, only I control my narrative and I think it’s about time I change it.

I read something, somewhere — vague I know, (I read something, somewhere, that one time…) but seriously, I don’t remember where and I can’t find the author. So, while these following words speak my truth, I should note that they aren’t mine.

self-confidence, I’m realizing, is a lot deeper than just thinking I’m beautiful and being free in who I am. it also includes being confident in my decisions and trusting myself to be committed to the things I want to do. to step outside of my comfort zone and assure myself that I will be okay in doing so. this kind of self-confidence will help me see the success I want to see.

I’ll wrap this up soon, I promise. But I want to, quickly, dive just a little deeper into this ocean of authenticity.

I used to struggle with the idea of inadequacy, of not being enough. A distinct lack of self-worth. On the surface, I’ve won those battles — it’s been a long fight. But it’s two-fold. I’ve tentatively won the war but that doesn’t mean the thoughts are gone. Am I enough? Will I, be accepted? Will I, be loved?

Here’s the thing. There was a year of my life, a few years ago, that really stripped me raw. That year will probably go down, even more so than this quarantine experience, as one of my most defining years. It was the year I had lost hope, but found my strength.

It was the year that taught me that I had to love myself and all my flaws. Not how to love them per say but that I had to find a way to love them. It taught me that to be accepted, I had to first accept myself. During that year, a dear friend of mine had passed away and I got a tattoo of a shooting star the day after.

My shooting star is a reminder of a few things:

I survived because I am resilient.

I survived because I am enough.

I survived because I am never, truly, alone.

I survived because I choose to love myself, not in spite of my flaws but because of them.

I survived because I choose to survive.

So, when those thoughts creep back in, I’ve started to stop and ask myself — did I do all that work to live a life void of truth and authenticity? I think, at the Earth’s core, lies so much authenticity and vulnerability and sincerity. And so, I’ve decided to dig until I find it — even if that means burying myself in the process.

Okay, I’m done. One more time for the mantra:

Perfection does not exist. That’s what they say, anyway. Perfection. Does. Not. Exist. One last time because I think it bears repeating — perfection does not exist.