
Nobody’s perfect.
At least, that’s what everyone says. But on the street, on my phone, on my TV screen–everywhere I look–I see people who seem far closer to perfect than I will ever be.
I’m not proud to admit I envy these strangers, but comparison is a thief I know well. It robs me of my confidence, leaving me convinced that no matter how smart I am, someone will always be smarter. Someone will always be prettier, funnier, kinder. Someone will always be a better student, a better friend, a better daughter.
Deep down, I know life isn’t a competition. I’m only human. I’m doing my best.
And nobody’s perfect.
At some point, though, those words stopped feeling like a consolation and started feeling like a curse. They don’t absolve me of failure so much as condemn me to always falling short.
I’m good because I try–good enough to set most people’s expectations high–but I’m not great. If I was, I’d be able to meet these standards every single time.
The more responsibilities I take on, the harder it becomes.
It’s exhausting to exist in the space between excelling and merely succeeding, always imagining that my best could be better.
Sometimes I think I’d rather be sentenced to the opposite extreme. If I can’t be the best, let me be the worst. Let me admire perfection from a distance instead of being tortured by its proximity.
Almost will never be enough for me. So, I continue to try my best, and as long as I do, I will continue to fall somewhere in between.
Good but never great.
That’s how I see myself. But maybe, just maybe, I am someone else’s stranger on the street. Someone’s measure of next-to-perfection.
And if that’s true, I hope they know they are the same to me.
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