I’ve written my first Medium post multiple times. Contemplating, attempting to put my thoughts into words, giving up — a never-ending cycle of doe-eyed excitement, ultimately relenting to the self-loathing and criticism that have become all too familiar.
I’ve written about my passions, my insecurities, my future (though they all seem to have found a way to meld together). But the difficulty is not finding something to write about; it’s about finding the *perfect* thing to write about. Call me a perfectionist, but I obsess over the smallest of details until I am sure that everything meets my standards. But even when I start to feel content, my insecurities begin to gnaw away at my view towards my work and I end up scratching the piece.
Because no, it’s not perfect. In fact, it’s imperfect, full of blemishes and rife with mistakes. For every piece of writing that I create, I notice hundreds of areas where there is possibility for improvement. I am not just my own worst critic; I am my own worst enemy.
But the thing about being human is that flaws are inevitable — they are a part of us. No matter how hard we try, no matter how much time we put into our work, perfection will never be within grasp. But even so, effort and dedication can take us pretty darn close to it.
And so, this is me, making an effort to embrace the imperfections, to accept the flaws. This is me, understanding that there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging my blemishes. This is me, an individual who’s not perfect — just human.