Here’s the truth: perfection is smoke. You can’t catch it. You can’t keep it. It’s a mirage somebody’s trying to sell you so you’ll buy their book, or their course, or their cream that promises to make you ten years younger.
Life isn’t marble floors and designer lighting. Life is the chipped mug you drink from every morning because it just feels right in your hand. It’s the dent in your car door from the time you misjudged the mailbox. It’s the day you thought you couldn’t keep going ... and somehow did.
Things break. You break. And that’s not the end of the story. It’s the part that makes the story worth telling.
Take crayons. Snap one in half and it doesn’t lose its purpose. It still makes marks, maybe bigger, maybe bolder, maybe less predictable. The box might look neat and orderly, but it’s the busted crayon that sprawls across the page and leaves a trail you can’t ignore.
People are no different. Scars, mistakes, screw-ups ... those aren’t blemishes on your record, they’re the fingerprints of resilience. Proof you’ve been knocked down and chose to stand back up anyway.
Perfection doesn’t move anyone. It might earn polite applause, but it won’t change a single soul. What does? The jagged edges. The cracks where the light sneaks out. The willingness to keep stepping forward when everything in you says stay down.
That’s what people rally around. That’s what gives somebody else permission to try, to risk, to show up even when they’re terrified of falling flat on their face.
So stop waiting until you’ve got it all figured out. Stop rehearsing for a flawless performance that doesn’t exist. Put your messy, dented, glorious self out there and make a mark.
Because in the end, nobody remembers the perfect ones. They remember the ones who bled, stumbled, laughed in the wrong places, and kept going anyway.
That’s not failure. That’s life.
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