I spent my twenties and thirties reading every book on metaphysics, psychology and philosophy that I could get my hands on. And then by my early forties, after lots of therapy, I stopped. I stopped trying to be perfect and decided that I was as “perfect” as I was ever going to be. It was time to stop trying so hard and just be – that is, I accepted my imperfections as a necessary part of being human. I accepted myself for who I was. I’ve been as happy and content as I could have ever imagined since.
In the beginning of COVID, I decided to buy a piece of land and build my dream home in the Lake Tahoe area. I spent a year designing it with an architect, obsessing over every little detail. I finally moved in a week ago, after a three-year building process. Since I moved in, I’ve had several friends over and their jaws drop when they see the home. Inevitably they ask me if I’m happy and all I can do, after answering with the expected, “Of course, it’s amazing!”, is begin to talk about the imperfections that I’m annoyed by or wanting the contractor to fix. I was throwing stones at my own glass house. It’s been about a week of this until today: I remembered my failed attempt to become perfect earlier in my life and how I finally accepted who I was. Today I am choosing to accept this beautiful home for what it is. And I hope to continue to remember that there is no such thing as achieving perfection – until we accept that imperfection is perfectly fine – and human.
