A Letter to Myself: You Don’t Have to Be Perfect Anymore

You don’t have to be perfect anymore.

You don’t have to look perfect—the outfit, the hair, the lipstick.

You don’t have to work so hard.

You don’t have to earn the perfect amount of money.

You don’t have to write the perfect story.

You don’t have to say the perfect thing.

You don’t have to be the perfect friend, daughter, sister, coworker.

You don’t have to work so hard at being alive.

You don’t.

You don’t have to prove to yourself that you are worthy of love by never erring from your impossible routine.

Perfection was a myth you upheld, because you didn’t know there was another way.

Another way to live, where you don’t have to fall apart every time you wake up late, or miss the gym. Where you don’t have to feel anxious because all you did was shower and feed your cats and watch Howl’s Moving Castle for the fifth time in a week.

You think if you stay “perfect,” you can prevent the “bad” things from happening. But “bad” things happen. Then you deal with them, and you move on. You don’t make them happen by failing to be perfect.

You think you don’t deserve to have fun if you haven’t been “perfect.” It’s lovely to be disciplined, but it’s a pity to let your life be led by the threat of punishment.

You’re safe now.

Be disciplined until your body asks you to rest. Rest even when you think it will kill you. Lay in your sloppy mess and realize that you are human. No one ever asked you to be otherwise.

(And secretly, I think the sloppy mess is beautiful.)