Imperfect

I’ve felt a deep need to write. And though my eyes are heavy and my shoulders are slumped… I’m here, on the couch, with you.

I’ve been warring with a part of myself that is imperfect, of late. Sweet good girl, Brooke. As a Mum she has been weary, and easy to snap. As a wife, daughter, sister, friend: she has been well meaning but so, so flawed.

Of course, my flaws are all relative. Relative to my own expectations, which I hear are extraordinarily high and quite frankly ‘unachievable’ for a human being. Still. Perfection is a dream, and I am the dreamer of darling, darling dreams.

I’m starting to realise, the game is over.

I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. And I no longer care to justify any of them.

This is a full stop, moment.

I am not perfect.

Full stop.

There is something sweet about such simplicity.