It’s funny, now I have started to write to you, I get all these angst-filled thoughts. I know those thoughts. They have kept me from being in love with you for who you are.
I love to be imperfect now.
Oh, I have drowned in the need to make everything perfect and have stopped myself from bringing things to the world because they weren’t perfect.
I forgot, dear imperfections, how fantastic you are. You teach me so much about myself, not just as a writer.
Without you, I would be boring and cookie cutter human, always striving to get rid of you.
I know now, I am perfect because of my imperfections.