Member-only story
The Weight of Perfectionism
Learning grace through shattered porcelain and damaged pride
The blue ceramic mug — the one with a chip on its handle that my mother refused to throw away — slipped through her fingers. Coffee exploded across the mosaic tiles in our kitchen I had meticulously scrubbed yesterday, obsessing over every small stain.
Before the liquid could finish creeping into the seams, my voice cut through the air — “How many times do I have to tell you to be careful? This is exactly why we can’t have nice things!”
The words hung between us like poison. My mother’s hands froze mid-reach, trembling slightly. She didn’t look at me. She just stared at the growing brown puddle spreading across the tile grooves. Her silence screamed louder than any response could have.
My chest tightened, a familiar constriction I’d been carrying since that meeting at the bank last month. I’d sat there in my five-year-old blazer, bought back when I thought dressing for success meant something, sweat gathering under my collar while the loan officer’s gold-rimmed glasses caught the fluorescent light.
His words still echoed — “Your current debt-to-income ratio is concerning, Mr. Srini. Perhaps if you’d approached us sooner…” I’d sat there, spine rigid, nodding mechanically while shame burned…
