“I’m perfect just the way I am.”
I don’t remember the question any more, but I do remember the look of horror on my friend Sophie’s face, and the shriek of “you can’t say that!” that seemed to silence the university café for hours. It was a moment of … well, I can’t decide if it was arrogance or brilliance that made me say it.
And I was wrong, of course.
But at the same time I was right.
Because back then, I was perfect. I was a perfect slab of marble waiting to be carved. And time has chipped away the bits of marble that aren’t me into a perfect, albeit still rough-hewn, approximation of who I am today. And time continues to chip and refine and sand and polish and maintain and repair – and at every stage, I’m perfectly perfect for that stage of my life.
I think we forget that. We are all a work in progress. We are all being chipped and battered by the carving tools of life (okay, maybe the metaphor doesn’t work so well there). That doesn’t mean we’re not exactly who we’re supposed to be right now - perfectly imperfect.