It is February 2nd. It’s not the day after the Super Bowl. It’s not the day Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow or not. It’s my birthday. I feel like nothing compared to the image of perfection I have manufactured and kept alive in my head. I’m not a mother. I’m not a wife. I’m not even a published physician or writer. For too long, I’ve looked to society to tell me how to live my life and to tell me how I should feel about my perceived failures.
Always trying to escape to a future perfect happiness that remains out of my reach makes it scary and at times painful living in the present. But I realise that the time to live is now. The time to be alive is now. That life isn’t perfect, that I won’t ever have all the answers, and I need not hide behind an excuse of being shy or of making a mistake.
The world is imperfect. I guess it always has been and will always be. I am human though and coming to grips with the vulnerability of being such is tough for a perfectionist as myself. I need to learn not to get all bent out of shape.
Today, I’m breathing and appreciating where I am in life. I’m having a wonderful day.