I am imperfect. I have flaws on the inside and out. My hair isn’t straight, nor will it ever be. I have done things of which I am not proud. I am imperfect.
Perfection is a thing that we have created as a guideline for how everyone should look, act, and feel. Women are supposed to be thin, and have long hair, and listen to their husbands–speaking of which, women should be married by a certain age. Men are supposed to be muscular and strong, and never cry or show vulnerability. All of this is what we find ourselves trying to be, yet we are not.
As I mentioned before, I know for a fact that I am imperfect; I am too pale and my hair is too messy, and where there should be perfectly manicured nails, there are jagged edges because when I am anxious I bite them. I am a control freak. I also have a temper that threatens to flare for the better part of most days, because I get frustrated with myself when I don’t do things perfectly. I am a perfectionist who thinks that she is incompetent when she doesn’t know how to do math, and pushes herself harder and harder to be better at something she is already good at. But all of that imperfection makes me who I am.
Imperfection lives in us all, and I don’t see why embarrassment has to slap our cheeks red whenever we say the wrong thing, or whenever we don’t look a certain way. It is like apologising for who we are, like we expect there to be left over bodies that are there for the taking in case we screw up the first version of ourselves.
But I believe that our imperfection makes us beautiful. That our imperfection makes each of us different. Unique. I believe that everyone came out flawed on the other side of the assembly line, but instead of being recalled we were declared ‘human’.