A Letter to Perfectionism

Dear Perfectionism,

We have been together a long time. I almost called you a friend, but you were never that. You were useful, sometimes — the kind of useful that costs more than it gives. You made me thorough, yes. You also made me afraid.

Afraid to start things I couldn't finish well. Afraid to speak in case I said the wrong thing. Afraid to be seen in my ordinary, unpolished, still-in-progress state. You told me that the imperfect version was the embarrassing version. That anything less than excellent was not worth offering.

But I have been learning something. The woman who anointed Jesus's feet with expensive oil and her own tears — that was not a polished act. It was desperate and extravagant and arguably wasteful by every reasonable standard. And Jesus called it beautiful.

God does not require my best performance. He asks for my honest presence. The cracked and imperfect offering, brought with a whole heart, is received with more grace than I ever expected.

So I am letting you go. Not because excellence doesn't matter, but because you have been using excellence as a weapon against me. And I am done being afraid of my own imperfection.

With respect but no regret, Me