OW

 

For years I treated missteps like stains I could scrub out if I just bought the right moral detergent. Worked harder. Slept less. Pretended I didn’t hear the hollow thud when a decision fell flat. I told myself there’d be a moment, a milestone, a triumph where I could say, See? Told you it all worked out. As if that erased the bruises gotten getting here.

But here’s the sideways grace of it: those wrong turns did something right. They stretched the edges. Broke the shell. Made room for growth, humility, and a weird, stubborn resilience that doesn’t come gift-wrapped with success. The messy parts carved shape where smooth clay never could.

No, I can't un-make the mistakes. And I don’t want to. They forged the scar tissue that keeps me standing and the vulnerability that keeps me human. I’m not here in spite of them. I’m here because of them.