How to Be Perfectly Imperfect

I used to wake from a dead sleep, crawl out of bed and slog into my closet to ensure my shoes were properly lined up.

I once declined joining my family for a beach day because I “needed” to clean the stove.

In fifth grade, I cried when I received a B in math.

The fruitless pursuit of perfection used to devour my joy. My tunnel vision only allowed me to view the imperfect minute details that needed tweaking, while real life lived outside that tunnel.

I experienced blips of relief when everything was “in its place,” but these moments were fleeting and were quickly wiped away by a new email flush with to-dos, a small human walking into my home and living life, or the general passage of time.