(originally posted on substack 6/29/24)
I’ve found myself at the wrong place three times in the past few weeks. As soon I closed maps, I reopened it. The third time, miles away from where I needed to be, anxiety melts into laughter. I recognize a belief I no longer accept– a perfect journey is the only one worth taking.
Expecting myself to be perfect is illogical. I do it anyway. Soon after, guilt masquerades as a guide. I confuse overthinking with action. Inaction inspires no omens. I question away spirit, in lieu of a hollow facts. Does this path have heart? I forget to ask.
I reflect on where I learned this. Church? School? From praise? Punishment? I struggle to pinpoint the moment when I wedded myself to an impossible standard. It’s easy to be ashamed in a journey that’s not mine.
Whose journey was I on? An amalgamation of voices answer me. A perfect path is one that avoids responsibility. The ruler by which I measure myself is always just out of reach.
In that laughter, I see Jesus. Realize that a symbol of perfection, is really a symbol of self-compassion. The truth that in every mistake, there is grace. A calling back to center, for reflection and informed action. That constant call back is what makes anything perfect. I am renewed by my own tongue.
In that laugh, I exchange perfection for accountability. My errors attract understanding, even as they bring discomfort. It passes. I see myself more clearly.
Redirection is an opportunity. A wrong turn brought me a greater understanding. A red light kept me safe. A late arrival placed me in perfect timing. A paradox, that in releasing perfection you find what is truly perfect. This insane spirit. This ability to come back home, a prodigal daughter to my own self.