I first started using the phrase perfectly imperfect in midlife around the time I finally gave myself permission to stop trying so hard to be perfect, whatever that means!
It felt liberating to say it out loud. Like a quiet rebellion against everything I spent decades trying very unsuccessfully to be.
Trying to be perfect is exhausting. It’s a full-time job with no time off. Even when you think you are doing everything right, there is always someone ready to point out what you missed. And that was usually me. I was so hard on myself.
So when I first said “I am perfectly imperfect” I meant it in the best possible way. At the time the one thing I knew I could do well consistently was to be imperfect. It was a bit of a joke and very true at the same time. I was finally learning to embrace myself as I was and not as I thought I had to be.
Not that long ago I started to notice people saying imperfectly perfect and it made me pause. Why did that feel different? Was one better than the other?
That got me thinking. Both phrases sound similar, but they land differently.
Perfectly imperfect feels like: “This is who I am. I am not hiding.” It is rooted in self-acceptance.
Imperfectly perfect feels more like noticing the beauty inside the flaws. It’s a little more poetic and equally real.
In the end I realize they both hold true. What matters more than the words is what changed in me. Letting go of perfection has made me so much kinder to myself.
That was not always the case. Like a lot of women, I spent years trying to get everything just right, my body, my work, my relationships, even my personality. I thought if I could just be the best version of myself (all the time) I would finally feel like enough.
All it did was make me tired.
Midlife gave me permission to stop pretending. Not all at once and not without a little grief. But over time I started letting go. Letting go of the image, the pressure, the shame that came with not measuring up. Letting go of trying to not only fit in but be the best in the bunch.
And what took the place of perfection was peace!
And sometimes the peace came wrapped in laughter.
I remember taking an improv class and being terrified of doing it wrong. Which is funny when you think about it. How do you even fail at improvisation? But the fear was real. I did not want to mess up or look foolish. What I did not realize was the improv thrives on not knowing what to do next and that it would still be ok. It was that trying, learning and yes even failing that life started to feel good, to be fun!
Whether I call it perfectly imperfect or imperfectly perfect, what I have learned is this: perfection kept me living small. It kept me afraid to make mistakes. Accepting my imperfections gave me the freedom to be myself. To try things without worrying whether I would fail or succeed.
Perfection never made me feel free.
Imperfection did!
Much love,
Helen
