Letting Go of Perfect


I can count on a missing shoe or mismatched sock to make me late every morning.

I am gaining weight at an alarming rate, 10 pounds plus some, monthly.

My face resembles the view of Mars in 3D in Google Earth.

My house is rarely spotless, and my makeup is never flawless.

I am moody. I swing low. I swing high, Sweet Chariot.

I am not Mother of the month, let alone Mother of the Year.

Sometimes, I am a selfish, lousy wife.

And, more days than not, I am simply not enough.

Not pretty enough, Not nice enough, Not smart enough, Not good enough.

I feel it in my bones. I taste it on my tongue, thick and putrid.


Thrashed and beaten, Failure.

The lies I believe as sacred truths wrap around me like a hangman’s knot, bound and taut.

I slip away.

I fade into the lies, the slander, and deceit.

And, just when I think I can’t hold on any longer, I let go.

I let go of expectations I can not meet,

Goals I will never achieve.

I let go of myths that hold no truth,

And, I let go of the one thing that weighs me down the most, the image of Perfect.