Progress > perfection

Perfect is boring anyway

I used to wear my perfectionism like armor.

I wouldn’t leave the house unless my makeup was perfect (but I’d still check my reflection in every window I passed).

I’d sob uncontrollably after missing a single note during a piano recital, convinced that the audience hated me (this was every piano recital).

I hoarded my stories and poems, editing them endlessly and refusing to show them to anyone until they were perfect (which meant never).

On the rare occasions when I did share my creations with others, I made sure to point out all the flaws first (better to self-flagellate than risk others’ criticism).

I thought being a perfectionist was a good thing. I thought it would make me better, smarter, prettier, more lovable. And one day, if I could just be perfect enough, it might even make me happy.

Still imperfect, still awesome, still perpetually covered in cat hair

Holy shit, I’m SO GLAD I don’t think that anymore! What a fucking relief!

I much prefer my current MO, which is to aim for progress, not perfection.

The beautiful thing about creative work is that it’s all progress.

The five minutes you spent thinking about your idea on the toilet = progress.

The beautiful, flow-filled hour you made space for this weekend = progress.

The short walk you took because your brain was already too full = progress.

The 15 minutes you journaled before bed = progress.

It’s. All. Progress.

What will you make progress on today?

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