I have spent my whole life, it seems, trying to be perfect. The perfect daughter, perfect mother, perfect friend, perfect wife - not to mention keeping a perfect house. I was raised to always do my best, with the understanding that my best was perfect, therefore anything less meant I hadn’t done a proper job. Of course, no one demanded perfect in my household but me. Still, I have a hard time letting it go. I can’t help it. I think it is my job, somehow, to make the world orderly and clean.
I don’t want to believe in perfect anymore. I think it is a good time to shed the shell of perfection and grow a newer, more flexible one to carry me through the second half of my life.